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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913837">A Tale of Scars &amp; Moose; Times of Need, of Dependency.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust'>beauty_love_stardust</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Tale of Scars and Moose Works [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Absent John Winchester, Abuse, Abusive John Winchester, Accidental Incest, Accidental Stimulation, Accidents, Age Difference, Age Play, Agony, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Altered Mental States, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst and Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Parent John Winchester, Beating, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bisexual Sam Winchester, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, Blood and Injury, Bobby Singer is Dean and Sam Winchester's Parent, Bobby Singer's House, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester, Broken Bones, Broken Dean Winchester, Broken Families, Broken Promises, Broken Sam Winchester, Brother/Brother Incest, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Chronic Pain, Codependency, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), College | University Student Sam Winchester, Comfort, Comfort Sex, Comforting Dean Winchester, Coming of Age, Companion Bond Feelings, Confused Dean Winchester, Confused Sam Winchester, Confusion, Consent Issues, Conversations in the Impala (Supernatural), Coping, Cussing, Cutting, Darkness, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dean Winchester Angst, Dean Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Dean Winchester Has Trust Issues, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words, Dean Winchester Says the Wrong Thing, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Fight, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester in Love, Dean Winchester in Denial, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Death, Deception, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking to Cope, Drug Addiction, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Drunk John Winchester, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Family, Embedded Video, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Sex, Everyone Has Issues, Exhaustion, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fanvids, Father/Son Incest, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Fights, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fist Fights, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Orgasm, Forehead Kisses, Gay Sex, Gentle Kissing, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Hands, Heartache, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Horny Dean Winchester, Horny Teenagers, Hurt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Identity Issues, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, Italics, John Not Coping, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Kissing, Lies, Literal Sleeping Together, Loss of Control, Loss of Faith, Loss of Identity, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Trust, Love, Lust, M/M, Making Out in the Impala (Supernatural), Masturbation in Shower, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Messy, Mild Blood, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Mommy Issues, Multi, Murder, Neck Kissing, Night Terrors, Non-Consensual Spanking, Obsessive Behavior, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, POV Dean Winchester, Pain, Parent/Child Incest, Parental Bobby Singer, Pegging, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Please Don't Hate Me, Plot Twists, Premature Ejaculation, Prophetic Dreams, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protectiveness, Psychological Drama, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Quote: Sam and Dean Winchester are psychotically irrationally erotically codependent on each other, Regret, Regretful Dean Winchester, Rough Kissing, Sad, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, School, Seduction, Seductive Sam Winchester, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Selfless Dean Winchester, Separation Anxiety, Separations, Sex, Sex in/on the Impala (Supernatural), Sexual Abuse, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Shame, Sibling Incest, Sleepiness, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Somnophilia, Stockholm Syndrome, Strap-Ons, Suicidal Thoughts, Surprise Kissing, Swearing, Teen Angst, Time Skips, Tired Dean Winchester, Tissue Warning, Top Dean Winchester, Tortured Dean Winchester, Tortured Sam Winchester, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, Touching, Touchy-Feely, Triggers, True Love, Trust, Trust Issues, Trusting Sam Winchester, Twisted, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unconscious Sex, Unconsciousness, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Underage Masturbation, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse, Visions in dreams, Vomiting, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wet Dream, Wetting, What Have I Done, Winchester Coping Mechanisms (Supernatural), Wrong, Young Dean Winchester, Young Love, Young Sam Winchester, so many feeings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:15:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>189,603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913837</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Somewhere the lines crossed and Dean doesn't know how to uncross them, again ... </i><br/> </p><p> From the instant Sam was born, Dean, felt a special connection with him. Forged in the chambers of his heart, Dean, will always put Sammy's well-being above his own. Looking after Sammy after their mother died became second nature to Dean and trying to win Dad's approval, is just as important. Dad can barely look at Dean and Sammy becomes more and more attached with every day that passes. Somewhere down the line, Dean, knows he'll lose himself in the rabble of trying to make everyone else happy, if he's not careful. But sometimes, he just can't bring himself to care.</p><p><i>(This will go through early childhood straight into their adult years, and eventually to the end of the tv series (and beyond!) )</i><br/> <br/><b><i>Warning: Dark &amp; triggering themes inside. Consider yourself warned.<br/>(Bonus fanvids, throughout.)</i></b><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/John Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Tale of Scars and Moose Works [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. part 1; codependency of life.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>Hello Lovelies!</i>
  <br/>
  <i>To start out, I want to just say that I have been planning this fanfic for a very long time! I haven't been able to buck up the inspiration to actually write it, for a very long time, but recently (despite that horrific finale) I gained quite a bit of inspiration for some reason (mostly out of nowhere I might add!) and I have finally put a dent in my initial idea for this fic. This is going to be a primarily Dean/Sam shipping fic, but there will also be Dean/John elements included, as you will see in the opener. There will be a lot of dark themes portrayed in the contents of this fic, along with a great many triggering themes (which anyone who knows my works know that that is always the case!). There will be heavy doses of angst sprinkled throughout and some fluff scattered about, too. (In coming installments.) Also, note that some tags are upcoming and not in the first part. I don't know how many parts this will have, (I know there will be at least ten but there may be many more depending on my muse and how well received this is) or how long this will end up being, but I plan to take this through their entire childhood and possibly even beyond their post-college reunion! We shall see! I have quite a few headcannons for Dean and Sammy that I can't wait to include and reveal as this fic goes on, so buckle in Lovelies and prepare for one hell of a ride!</i>
</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i> Dean and Sam, from Sammy's birth, through potty-training Sammy, and Dean's first traces of sexual feelings.<br/>Dean: 4-11 years old.<br/>Sam: 0-7 years old.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>A Tale of Scars &amp; Moose; Times of Need, Of Dependency.</strong> </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>True love is selfless</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>It is prepared to sacrifice.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p>
  <em>part 1; codependency of life.</em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <iframe></iframe>
  </p>
</div><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>i. tender beginnings.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>From the moment Sam was born—<em>the dynamic shifted</em>. Not just for Dean but for the entire Winchester household.</p><p>Suddenly, Mom would cuddle this new pink bundle up close to her breast and feed him creamy liquid milk from her teat. Coo in hushed tones with sweet sung lullabies until the screaming bundle would settle into dull coos all his own.</p><p><em>Sammy</em>.</p><p>Dean recalled being encapsulated by that newfound bundle. Holding him, letting his little baby mouth suckle on his fingers, whilst those bulging round globes met his with genuine babyish curiosity.</p><p>Sometimes, Dean, had settled for hours on the cool wooden floorboards and held Baby Sammy in his lap; fascinated.</p><p>Baby Sammy <strong><em>had</em></strong> been fascinating.</p><p>Soft tufts of hair would wisp on top of his head and Dean would rub deftly through the feathery light fuzz.</p><p>There was always something <em>more</em> to see in, Sammy.</p><p><em>Always</em>.</p><p>So, after the fire—<em>soon after</em>—Dean found no faults with holding Baby Sammy. Listening to the babyish coos and letting his small teething mouth slurp and suck on his fingers for comfort. No longer was it their Mother stowed away in Sammy’s nursery with her dress drawn open and a latched Sammy at her teat – now it was Dean with his own stubby fingers curled around the middle of a tap-warmed bottle of formula trying to entice Sammy into taking the nipple. Watching as his little cheeks puffed out and gorged themselves on formula.</p><p>While also trying to ignore the rough sound of their Dad, scribbling in his journal, a beer bottle making a wet rim on the surface of the motel table, looking up only occasionally to bark a <em>few (‘Keep him quiet, will ya, Dean?’)</em> commands at him. <em>(‘Yes Sir’.)</em></p><p>Dean knew the Yellow-Eyed thing that killed Mom was still out there. He knew that the level of quiet their Dad had to survey notes, determined how much closer he would come to the payback that was so rightly deserved.</p><p>So, Dean, did what he <em>could</em> to help.</p><p><strong><em>Quiet</em></strong>.</p><p>Dad <em>depended</em> on <strong><em>quiet</em></strong>.</p><p>But this one night in particular, Sammy, had been screaming for over an hour.</p><p>Sniffles, then little whines—<em>now outright</em> <strong><em>screams</em></strong>. Pumping his little legs and fists. Tears in a permanent run down his cheeks. Sheer <em>panic</em> weighed down Dean’s chest.</p><p>“Would you shut him <em>up</em>, Boy?! <em>Now!”</em> Dad slammed his beer down on the table and shot a vicious, high-charged look that made Dean’s blood chill through.</p><p>He knew the consequences of failure. He sucked in the skin of his cheek. Bit and fought back the stream of <em>tears</em> that threatened to fall.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” his voice made a high-pitched squeak at the end and he rubbed at Sammy’s sides and back. Lifted him into a propped upright position on his lap and nuzzled the top of his head with his lips. Brushed his hands over the ribbed edges of Sammy’s spine and bobbed him up and down on his knees in a balanced effort.</p><p>Sammy <em>still</em> screamed.</p><p>“Shh, Sam … <em>Sammy</em>. You <strong><em>have</em></strong> to stop. <strong>Please</strong> Sammy. Be quiet for <em>me</em>, Sammy,” Dean spoke in hushed little tones.</p><p>In a last-ditch effort to prevent an implosion, Dean, popped open the snaps down the front of Sammy’s onesie. Then, made to rub and stroke all <em>over</em> Sammy’s silky skin <em>(his belly, ribs, back – anywhere within reach)</em> until at long last he managed to get him calmed to a lulling whine.</p><p>The tension in the room had shifted dramatically, and Dean finally released a breath of air from his lungs in relief.</p><p>“Thank you, Sammy. Thank you.” He proceeded to rub him until Sammy found sleep minutes later in his arms.</p><p>Dad barely acknowledged Dean’s efforts. Took a drink of his beer, and returned to surveying old legends in a book.</p><p>For the moment, Dean, was just <em>relieved</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>ii. shifts &amp; dynamics.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>By the time Sammy was three, seven-year-old, Dean, had begun to potty train him.</p><p>He’d convinced Dad to buy the white-and-blue plastic potty when they’d been at Walmart on a food run. He’d grumbled under his breath about <em>‘expense,’</em> and <em>‘Sammy,’</em> but Dean listened more than Dad realized and knew they couldn’t afford to continue purchasing Sammy’s diapers.</p><p>The plastic things were too expensive—<em>too money grubbing.</em></p><p>Dean could handle emptying a plastic device if it meant Dad would be a little less stressed.</p><p>So, Dean, hunkered down that night, unboxed the potty device and set it up in the bathroom of their hotel room.</p><p>He coaxed Sammy into his arms and convinced him to sit on the potty by settling down right next to him, while he half-focused on his homework.</p><p>School was a bitch, but Dean was trying to balance Sammy and schoolwork, regardless. His grades weren’t spectacular, but at least he wasn’t flunking out, which was enough for, Dad, and therefore enough for Dean.</p><p>It took a bit of time, but Sam finally seemed to understand what he was supposed to do <em>(while on the potty device)</em> and it only took him a few weeks of setting Sammy on the potty, every night, until he was trained enough to use diapers only at bedtime, having started to ask for his <em>special</em> potty, during the day.</p><p>Dean was relieved that the added expense of diapers would be far less, now that Sammy only used a single diaper, each night.</p><p>And Sam stayed relatively quiet now, so long as Dean was willing to rub and ease the skin under Sammy’s clothes before they slept.</p><p>It was an <em>easy</em> task—and Dean found it relaxed him, <em>too</em>, to listen to the little noises Sammy would make in his throat, before he tucked near and settled in for sleep.</p><p>But, as Sammy became easier to contain and deal with, Dad’s, temperament began to noticeably shift and falter.</p><p>Dean noticed the way he’d begun to leave for longer and longer. It was more often that he’d drop them off with Bobby, or Paster Jim, and the time spent in motel rooms had lessened considerably.</p><p>It was like, Dad, was avoiding them—<em>avoiding him</em>—and it <em>hurt</em>.</p><p>
  <em>A lot.</em>
</p><p>Because, Dean, didn’t like to be away from Dad. He didn’t like the uncertainty that came with the time spent apart.</p><p>Bobby wasn’t unkind, but he was prickly<em> (much like Dad, only worse)</em> and Dean preferred to be with Dad.</p><p>And staying with Bobby meant helping out in the junkyard, which Dean didn’t mind, overmuch, because he got to practice fixing up cars and sometimes even rebuilding them from the ground up.</p><p>But it still wasn’t the same as fixing up the Impala with Dad.</p><p>The Impala was a <em>beautiful</em> car and Dean was determined to prove he was worthy of owning her someday, when he could attain his driver’s license.</p><p>Dad left him and Sam with Bobby for most of the spring, well into the summer and he missed Sammy’s fourth birthday, but it wasn’t really of any consequence, because Dad had missed Dean’s back in January, too.</p><p>He’d been off on a hunt and hunts <em>always</em> come first.</p><p>It was August when Dad swooped in and picked them back up. And he didn’t even seem to notice that Sammy had sprouted a good two inches and no longer messed-up his letters as much and could finally say <em>‘Dad’</em> and <em>‘Dean’</em> without faltering on his sounds, but the important thing was that Dad came and got them.</p><p>The little stuff didn’t <em>matter</em> so much.</p><p>He barely even grunted when Dean told him he helped Bobby rebuild an old Mustang from scratch. Dean was proud of himself, but maybe the beat-up old car wasn’t really all that great … Bobby had been impressed but, Bobby, <em>isn’t</em> <strong><em>Dad</em></strong><em> …</em></p><p>He just loaded them into the Impala and they drove off, toward a new town, in another state.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>“Sammy sleepin’?”</em> Dad mutters under his breath, distractedly, while scribbling away in his journal.</p><p>Dean had just finished a bedtime story and a half-hour of soothing, little Sammy’s skin with rubs to get him settled down to sleep for the night.</p><p>Lately, Sammy, has taken to using Dean as a sort of body pillow, curling his little arms and legs around his torso like a monkey and falling asleep like that. If Dean has to take a piss or get up for any reason, he has to untangle himself from Sammy to do so.</p><p>Tonight, was no different.</p><p>Dean stretches his muscles and listens to the soft pop of his limbs in the room. It’s almost Christmas and there’s a pathetic <em>‘Charlie Brown Tree’</em> in the corner. Dad’s attempt to play, <em>Santa</em>, as it were.</p><p>It’s the first year since Mom died that they’ve even had any semblance of a Christmas tree or impending celebration of it, even. It’s cold up in, Maine, and Dean wishes they were down south in Texas, or Arizona to escape it, but they’ve been here for a few weeks now, while Dad’s been tracking a werewolf den and there’s no end in sight.</p><p>“Yeah, Dad. Sammy’s sleeping,” Dean whispers, settling down at the tiny table, hoping to share a few minutes of alone time with him.</p><p>It’s been a while since he’s been able to catch, Dad, idle and in a semi-good mood.</p><p>The beer seems to have loosened him a bit, rather than aggravated his nerves for once, and the air is less tense.</p><p>Dad peers over his shoulder at a sleeping Sammy and grunts with apparent amusement at the sight of him. Currently, he’s flopped on his side with a snore on his lips, having tangled up in his sheets, while seeking out Dean.</p><p>“He’s getting <em>big,</em> Dean,” Dad says with a nominal sigh, and rubs the side of his face, scratching at his couple-day-old stubble.</p><p>“Yeah, he <em>is,” </em>Dean agrees, and takes the opportunity to ask what he’s been meaning to ask for a while.</p><p>“Dad? Do you think we could <em>stay</em> with you more? I mean … stay in <em>hotels</em> instead of at Uncle Bobby’s or Paster Jim’s?”</p><p>Dad crinkles his brow and closes his journal, swiping up his beer to take another sip.</p><p>Dean lowers his hands into his lap and squeezes until they turn white, hoping against <em>hope</em> that he’ll say yes.</p><p>“I don’t know, Son, taking care of Sammy is a <em>big</em> responsibility and you know I can’t always be there to guide ya through it. And what if something goes <em>wrong,</em> huh? I can’t lose you, <em>too,</em> Dean.”</p><p>Dean feels his heart clench, because it’s the first time Dad’s ever said anything about being afraid to lose him. Sometimes, he wonders if Dad even sees him through his bad moods and alcohol-induced hazes, but he does.</p><p><em>Apparently</em>.</p><p>“I’m gonna be <strong><em>eight</em></strong> next month, Dad, I can handle it. Nothing is gonna go wrong, I <em>promise</em>. Sam’s no problem, really. And you can sign him up for Pre-school after Christmas, since we’re gonna be here a little while longer.”</p><p>Dean figures that Dad probably doesn’t realize that he hears things, <em>(or even pays attention)</em> but just like with Sam’s diaper expenses, Dean’s, heard his Dad mention on the phone to Bobby that there appears to be more than just werewolves in this general area, and he plans to hunt down everything in the vicinity that is primarily killing kids and teenagers.</p><p>“I don’t know about putting Sam in Pre-School,” Dad mutters, eying the sleeping shape of, Sammy, again.</p><p>Dean’s heart races as he realizes he has a chance to actually <em>win</em> this conversation, but he forces himself to stay collectively cool on the outside.</p><p>“He’s <em>real</em> smart, Dad. I already taught him to count to ten, and he knows <em>all</em> his ABC’s, even his speech has improved. You’d be so <strong>proud</strong> of him, Dad,” Dean replies, bragging like a proud parent at a parent-teacher conference.</p><p>Dad chuckles deep in his throat and shakes his head. “He knows how to do <em>all</em> that, huh? Maybe he should be in school then.”</p><p>Dean smiles wide with excitement on his face. “Does that mean we can <strong>stay</strong>, Dad?”</p><p>One of the reasons, Dad, claims to drop them off all the time, is because he can’t watch Sammy during the day while he’s hunting, so if Sammy has a place to go that’s free, Dean, hopes it will be enough incentive to keep the family together more often.</p><p> Dean sees Dad’s eyes go a bit shadowy as he trains them down on the tabletop surface, seeming to study some of the cracks and dents in the wood for a few beats.</p><p>Dean takes the moment of hesitation and runs with it. Deciding to do something he’s not done in almost a <em>year</em>. He stands up and clamors <em>(rather clumsily)</em> onto Dad’s lap, and snakes his arms around his middle, pressing the bulk of his face into Dad’s flannel, button-down shirt.</p><p>He inhales, taking in the scent of stale cigarettes, and musty traces of cologne, and a scent that is uniquely—<em>Dad’s</em>—before he rears back his head and looks at Dad, evenly.</p><p>“I really want to be with <em>you</em>, Dad. <strong><em>Please</em></strong>. I love Uncle Bobby and Paster Jim, but they aren’t <em>you</em>, okay? I just … I’ll be <strong>so</strong> good, Dad. <strong><em>So</em></strong> good … and I’ll keep Sammy quiet, you won’t even <em>know</em> we’re <em>here …”</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t realize how <em>stiff</em> Dad’s back gets when he climbs on him. He barely even registers the dark spread of <strong>shadow</strong> in Dad’s eyes.</p><p>The air itself almost seems to manifest a change but Dean can’t tell if its good or bad, it feels <em>neutral</em>.</p><p>Dean used to sit on Dad’s lap <em>all</em> the time, before the fire that took Mom. In fact, Dad, used to hug him daily and carry him around the house on his hip or shoulders. He used to show him avid love and affection, but ever since, Dad’s, been cold and collected, keeping a tight lid on any and all affectionate touches.</p><p>Dean gives Sammy long, pampering rubs and brushes all the time, but Dean <em>never</em> gets it himself anymore.</p><p>He’s learned not to complain and that it’s not <em>manly</em> to ask or want something so girly … but … <em>he does.</em> He wants Dad to hold him like he used to, and kiss his forehead and tell him everything is <em>just fine.</em></p><p>He wants Dad to actually <em>want</em> him around.</p><p>If he could have <strong>one</strong> thing for Christmas, that would be his wish.</p><p>“When did you get so much like yer, Mom, huh?” Dad lowers his beer with a little grunt from Dean’s movements, and cups the round globe of Dean’s cheek under one of his sand-papery-rough hands.</p><p>Dean shivers and leans into the rare touch, and nearly keens when Dad’s other hand brushes the arc of his spine, grazing the skin underneath and warming it with the friction.</p><p>Blinking a few times, Dean, brings his thoughts back into focus in order to register what Dad just said.</p><p>“I’m like, <em>Mom?” </em>Dean asks, curiously.</p><p>He never really thought about it before. He has precious few memories of Mom but the ones he has make him think of home; a place that’s slipping more and more out of focus with every day and year that passes.</p><p>Dad’s eyes tear up a little and his thumb drags across the rim of Dean’s lower pout. “Your lips, your eyes, even your <em>smile</em>. God, you look just <em>like</em> her, sometimes …”</p><p>Dean’s stomach flutters and he thinks about it for a moment. He wonders why he never noticed his similarities to Mom. Of course, his hair is <em>darker</em> like Dad’s, but his eyes are similar in color to Mom’s and maybe even some of his facial structure is <em>built</em> like hers.</p><p>Dean can’t tell if it’s a good or bad thing that he looks like, Mom, so he says what comes to mind, “I’m sorry, Dad.”</p><p>Dad sighs and wets his lips with his tongue. “It’s <em>difficult</em> to look at you sometimes …” his voice trails off and Dean’s stomach flops again.</p><p>All these months, Dean, tried to be more responsible and less of a problem all in the hopes that it might make Dad <em>want</em> him again, but there is absolutely no way he can fix his appearance … change his eyes … <em>his mouth</em> <em>…</em> <em>his skin …</em></p><p>Dean gnaws on his bottom pout and tries like <strong>hell</strong> to keep his eyes clear of tears. He can’t cry over this—<em>not in front of Dad.</em></p><p>“Is that <em>why</em> <em>…”</em> Dean hesitates, “Why you’ve been sending us <em>away?”</em></p><p>Dad’s mouth forms a frown and his face hardens a bit. “You’re just better off <strong>without</strong> me, Son,” he mutters, evading the question in true <em>‘Winchester’</em> form.</p><p>Dean squirms and clings to Dad’s flannel, tight. “Please, Dad, I’ll stay out of <em>sight …</em> Just don’t send me away, anymore. <em>Please …</em> I need you.”</p><p>It’s weakness that he’s displaying, but he felt something inside of him crack and break, because it’s been so long since Dad’s shown him love and he <strong><em>needs</em></strong> it. He just realized how badly he’s truly <em>missed</em> it.</p><p><em>“Dean—”</em> Dad grunts and sighs as Dean clings to him like a monkey, same as Sammy clings to Dean while they sleep.</p><p><em>“Please,”</em> Dean pleads and chances a glance up at Dad.</p><p>Dad reaches down and rubs Dean’s back, brushing the tired muscles with practiced ease that has Dean sighing and simpering like a contented kitten, and he loosens his grip and relaxes on Dad’s lap.</p><p>“You can <em>stay</em>, Boy,” he relents, and Dean’s head quirks up a bit in elation. “But stay out from under my <strong>feet</strong>, okay?”</p><p>“Yes, Sir!” Dean answers immediately and tucks his head into Dad’s neck, savoring the soft, <em>uncommon</em> contact from Dad.</p><p>“Run along to <em>bed</em> now, Son. You’re getting too <em>old</em> for this.”</p><p>Dean dares to stay and whispers, “Just a <em>few</em> more minutes, Dad. <em>Please?”</em></p><p>Dad’s hand stops midway down his back and Dean fears for a second, he is going to tell him <em>‘no,’</em> but he doesn’t. Dad doesn’t say anything.</p><p>Instead, he picks back up, and one of his large, warm hands travels under the flannel of Dean’s own shirt, brushing the bare skin in wonderful, long sweeps of contact.</p><p>Dean’s eyes fall closed and he whimpers, quivering head to toe with pure ecstasy. He’s so <em>starved</em> for touch that he forgot what it felt like, entirely. How <em>good</em> it feels.</p><p>There’s something about the friction-induced heat that pulses up Dean’s spine and under his skin, to sink into his bones, that has him fraught with the lovely sensation. He completely understands why Sammy won’t sleep without this, now.</p><p>
  <em>It’s heavenly.</em>
</p><p>Dean fights to stay awake, but eventually his long day starts to catch up with him, and before he knows it, he’s nodded off in Dad’s lap, his face pushed into Dad’s front, <em>peacefully</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>iii. want of innocence.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean couldn’t seem to get Dad alone, again, for a while after that.</p><p>The next morning, he’d woken in his motel bed, with Sammy clinging hold of him like a monkey, and Dad already gone out on the hunt <em>(with a note hastily scribbled:</em> <em>‘Back by Christmas,’ and a few bills to get him through the week)</em> which was typical.</p><p>Dean couldn’t get Dad’s words out of his head, though, and he spent more time than he used to in front of the mirror, searching for the parts of his face that <em>‘most’</em> resembled Mom. And in doing so, discovered that even his tinge of brownish-light hair was more Mom’s than Dad’s.</p><p>Even Sammy seemed to notice his proclivity to stare at himself, because he’d followed him into the bathroom (since Sammy had no concept of privacy) and giggle when he’d stare, too, long at himself.</p><p>“What’s so funny? Huh?” Dean asked him once.</p><p>Sammy giggled harder and only shrugged in way of response, and scampered off.</p><p>Dean waited out the week by keeping Sammy fed and entertained with the help of morning cartoons, and the promise of Christmas and Santa Claus which seemed to fascinate Sammy.</p><p>The idea of a big, round man in a red suit made Sammy laugh and his whole face would light up when he’d laugh. It was the purest thing Dean had ever known.</p><p>Pure enough to make Dean wonder how he got so lucky to have Sammy as his brother in the first place. Dean could have had any brother, with any personality—<em>but he got Sammy.</em></p><p><em>Sweet, Intelligent, <strong>Kind</strong>, Sammy</em>.</p><p>On, Christmas Eve, Dean, tucked Sammy into bed with a Christmas story, he read aloud while Sammy pointed and giggled at the pictures.</p><p>Dean could still remember his final Christmas with Mom. It was a vague memory, but it lingered in his mind like a flicker. She tucked him into bed on Christmas Eve and kissed his forehead, and read him <em>‘Twas’ the Night Before Christmas’ </em>while he sipped hot cocoa.</p><p>Sammy hadn’t even been born yet, and Dean still felt the ache when he thought about all the things Sammy would never know about Mom.</p><p>Dean couldn’t replicate the cocoa <em>(because they didn’t have any) </em>but he managed the bedtime story, and tried to make it just as exciting as Mom had.</p><p>Sammy fell asleep soon after in his usual monkey-fashion and Dean eventually slept, too, waiting up for Dad.</p><p>Dad came home, just as he promised <em>(for once), </em>because it felt like Dean had only just shut his eyes, when Dad shook him awake, with a gentle hand and a red, Santa-hat on his head.</p><p>Sammy’s limbs eased from around Dean’s body and his eyes cracked open, as he, too, woke up.</p><p>“Dad! You’re <strong>back</strong>!” Sammy shrieks and sloppily climbed across Dean to get at, Dad. It’s the fastest Dean’s ever seen Sammy move. Hell, he knees and elbows Dean’s stomach and thighs to manage the feat!</p><p>“Merry Christmas, Dean! Sammy!” Dad chuckles in a rare sound, that fills Dean with joy, and he settles on his knees on the bed with his feet tucked under him, allowing Sammy ample time to bask in this rare attention from Dad.</p><p><em>“Merry Christmas, Daddy!”</em> Sammy screeches in his high-pitched squeal.</p><p>Dean hesitates to seek Dad’s affection himself, still caught up in Dad’s words to him last week.</p><p>Dad opens his arms, however, and Dean needs no further invitation to wrap Dad in cuddling hugs of his own.</p><p>It feels like they are a family again. Just for one moment—a normal family like any other.</p><p>“Go open you gifts, Boys! Santa came!” Dad announces and Sammy forgoes hugs with Dad to sprint to the pathetic little corner tree, to scour the few gifts under there, seeking out his own.</p><p>Dean reluctantly draws back from hugs with Dad, to follow him, knowing Sammy can’t read the labels himself.</p><p>Dad follows them and rests with a beer at the tiny table, watching with a smile on his face, as Dean ekes out the gifts and sits next to Sammy on the carpet to open them.</p><p>One thing that Dean would always remember about this Christmas, wasn’t that Dad actually spent it with them—but that he opened his first ever gun.</p><p>
  <em>A Colt M-19.</em>
</p><p>His face lit right up when he tore the paper and glimpsed the gun box that first time …</p><p>“Dad, is this real?!” Dean had been asking for a gun for a while, but Dad told him he wasn’t old enough to have his own.</p><p>He’d been leaving him one of the various guns he owned <em>(in case of emergency only) and </em>taught him to hold and fire it, only once.</p><p>“It’s <em>real</em>, Son,” Dad says proudly with a hint of a smile on his lips.</p><p>Dean removes it from the box and holds it up, squinting an eye as he aimed it toward the wall. It was heavy and hard in his hand—<em>and also a weight of responsibility that came with actually owning it</em>—but Dean felt his heart soar with pride, because it meant Dad trusts him, not to fuck up owning it.</p><p>Which is huge.</p><p>Sammy stares at his teddy bear and brand-new pocketknife in wonder of his own, trying to figure out what to do with it.</p><p>“Is this a <em>toy,</em> Dad?” Sammy wonders aloud, because Dean’s always kept the weapons away from Sammy.</p><p>Dad barely ever handles or does much with, Sammy, so it’s no wonder he clearly doesn’t realize that Dean has been trying to preserve <em>(at least a portion)</em> of Sammy’s innocence for a little while longer.</p><p>“No, Sammy, that’s <em>not</em> a toy, it’s a <em>weapon.</em> And you just might have to use it someday, so I’ll leave it to <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> to show you how to use it, <em>properly.”</em></p><p>Sammy eyes the closed knife with a quizzical look and turns it over a couple times in his hand, and Dean swallows thickly in his throat, suddenly feeling a lump forming in his stomach. The prospect of Sammy with a <strong><em>weapon</em></strong> is difficult to process.</p><p>Dean wants him to stay a kid.</p><p><em>Innocent. Sweet.</em> <strong><em>Kind</em></strong>.</p><p>“Dad, are you <em>sure</em> you want Sammy to have a pocketknife? He could <strong>hurt</strong> himself …” Dean finds his mouth trying to reason, as he stares nervously at the knife, lowering his gun carefully back into its box.</p><p>“I’m not a <em>baby</em>, Dean!” Sammy huffs with a glint of frustration in his murky-green eyes.</p><p>“No, you’re not a baby … <em>but …”</em></p><p>“No, <em>But’s,</em> Dean. You wanted the responsibility of staying with me for longer stretches of time out on the road, and that means its time to lose some of your childish things. Sammy, too.”</p><p>Dean still feels a pitted-out weight in his stomach as he pictures, Sammy, actually gankin’ monsters.</p><p>It doesn’t quite mesh with the life Dean planned out for Sammy. A semi-normal childhood of <em>(somewhat) </em>ignorance and bliss. At least for a little while longer.</p><p>“He’s the same age as <em>you</em> were when we lost your Mom. He’s, too, soft, Dean, and I don’t like the idea of him living in the <strong>fantasy</strong>.”</p><p>Dean fights back tears that rim his eyes, because he knows that Dad is ultimately right—<em>at least about Sammy needing to know more</em>—just not about Sammy being <em>too</em> <em>soft</em>.</p><p>Dean likes the softness in Sammy. He’s warm and cuddly and most of all, <em>his</em>—<strong><em>Dean’s.</em></strong></p><p>Dean thinks of Sammy as <em>his</em> kid, his responsibility, and Dad wants to ruin Sammy. And Dean doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Sammy to have to be grown-up like him.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Dean says, unwilling—<em>unable</em>—to challenge Dad when he gets that <em>‘Don’t-fuck-with-me, Winchester’</em> look in his eye.</p><p>“<strong>Good</strong>. Now, load up that gun of yours, I’ll take you and Sammy <em>shooting</em>, and you can show him some of the knife techniques <em>I </em>taught you.” The way Dad says it, is nothing shy of an order, and Dean knows it.</p><p>The good-boy-soldier in Dean rears his head and snaps him into line, consequently, and Dean does as he’s told, with another ‘Yes, Sir,’ while Sammy cheers, wholly unaware that everything just changed—for <strong><em>both</em></strong> of them.</p><p>Dean wound recount that day, years down the line, as the day he earned his first gun and surrendered what remained of his childhood, along with it.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>iv. age &amp; differences.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>True to his word, for the next three years, Dad kept them on the road and in cheap motels far more often than he left them at Bobby’s or Paster Jim’s.</p><p>There were rare occasions when the hunt was simply, too, dangerous to have them around—or when Dad feared he would be gone for just, too, long of a stretch to leave them in a hotel, but for the most part, he <em>did</em> leave them.</p><p>Being left alone (even with the prospect of Dad returning some nights for recuperation) was incentive enough for Dean to want it.</p><p>Though, Dean, sacrificed a tidbit of Sammy’s innocence that Christmas by explaining (in greater detail) why Sammy needed a knife, he’d managed to keep Mom’s true cause of death from Sam. At least, he’s been trying to, anyway.</p><p>Sam’s at an age where he asks an awful lot of questions. He’s way, too, smart for his seven years (way smarter than Dean was that Christmas for example, at the same age) and his grades are perfect, despite their constant moving around.</p><p>Dad has been on Dean’s case since that Christmas, about toughening Sam up and Dean has been trying … but Sammy is a natural softy and gentle as a lamb. Killing isn’t something that will ever come natural to Sammy. Dean has a feeling about that.</p><p>Dean can barely maintain a C average in school and he’s almost been held-back on more than one occasion. It’s not so much that the work is hard, it’s just that he’s too concentrated on <em>raising</em> Sammy. And Dad could care less about his grades, his answer to everything to do with their lives is a grunt of disinterest (unless it comes to Sammy slacking off with his training then Dad cares) and Dean’s been rolling with the punches all along.</p><p>Sammy still shares his bed at night and somehow manages to hog all the covers, while also monkey-clutching him all night long. It’s endearing, and one of Dean’s favorite experiences, but anymore, it’s starting to encroach too much on Dean’s need for personal space.</p><p>Sammy still follows him into the bathroom most of the time, even when he showers or uses the bathroom, which can be unnerving, because … just <em>…</em> <strong><em>why</em></strong><em>?</em> But Dean has been trying to be understanding about Sammy’s mounting attachment to him, because sometimes, its all the two of them have.</p><p>They don’t have a steady parent, with a steady job, and a steady house to grow up in, but they <strong><em>do</em></strong> have each other. Sammy is Dean’s only real constant and vice-versa, but things are starting to shift in Dean.</p><p>He’s started to feel a tightness in his crotch from time to time. Sort of a build-up and he knows <em>(somewhat) </em>about what it is, but it’s rather difficult to keep a lid on, with Sammy always close.</p><p>And the worst part—<em>touching Sammy stirs him up inside.</em></p><p>When Sammy pushes against him for his nightly caresses, the touch has started to mount in ways that Dean can’t really describe. Sam has started to ask for them during the day, when they watch tv after school or after a sparring session that leaves them both bruised—and most disconcerting of all—<em>Sammy’s been wanting to touch <strong>him</strong>, too.</em></p><p>He’s been asking to touch under Dean’s clothes …</p><p>Dean would have jumped at the chance, three years ago, but the tight heat in his crotch tells him not to indulge—not to take the touches and the cuddling any further than it already is. Because right now, Dean, is well aware that its on the cusp of what is decent and normal.</p><p>
  <em>The very, <strong>damn</strong>, cusp …</em>
</p><p>Then, there is Dean’s relationship with Dad. It’s not prickly, so to speak, but Dad doesn’t stick around as much as Dean might have hoped when he asked to stay with him more, all that time ago.</p><p>Dad has upped his drinking and kept his sour mood. There are few, rare instances when Dean finds a small window of time to talk to Dad, alone, but he’s always avoidant of looking at him straight in the eyes, and even less willing to offer any physical contact—which Dean craves, desperately, from him.</p><p>Anything to reassure him that its okay. That Dad still loves him, despite his similar appearance to Mom.</p><p>The most Dad has looked at him, is when he takes a belt to him for bad behavior. He doesn’t hit, <em>Sammy</em>, though. Dean always makes sure of it, by taking the blame for Sammy’s mistakes.</p><p>Dad never used to belt him … not when Mom was alive, but nothing has been the same since Mom was alive.</p><p>“Katrina has a mom and a dad and they don’t move around like we do, Dean. Why do we always move around, anyway? Every time I ask, Dad, he just says, <em>‘Cause Mom,’</em> which doesn’t make sense, Dean. What does Mom’s death have to do with moving around? I hate moving around. I want to stay in one place, Dean.” Sam is on one of his spiels, today.</p><p>Dean is <em>(at least trying) </em>to polish his gun, while concentrating on whatever show is currently on tv <em>(it’s some Spanish show of some kind)</em> while also ignoring Sammy, which isn’t altogether easy, today.</p><p>Dean is privy to Sam’s every complaint from the moment he picks Sam up from school, to the time they go to bed each night.</p><p>Sam really is like his son, more than his brother, anyway.</p><p>“Who the <em>hell</em> is, Katrina?” Dean mutters, only picking up on a little bit of what Sammy said.</p><p>Sam rolls his eyes and huffs, with this cute little pout that reminds Dean of an adorable puppy.</p><p>“Dean!” Sam whines when he realizes that Dean hasn’t been listening, <em>again</em>.</p><p>Sam is relentless today, and he’s clearly not going to stop bugging him for anything, so, Dean, sets his Colt aside and switches off the tv, sidewinding towards Sam on the beat-up, motel couch.</p><p>“Look, Sammy, we don’t <em>have</em> a Mom, okay? It’s shitty and it <strong>sucks</strong>, but we just don’t, alright? And yeah, Dad, moves us around a lot, but its not that big of a deal, not really. I mean, our home is what we <strong>make</strong> of it, right? You <em>are</em> my home, Sammy. That’s all I need, and that’s all you should need, too.”</p><p>Dean hates trying to give Sammy <em>‘talks,’</em> they never bode well for him and he usually ends up the one that loses the conversation as a whole, because Sammy often winds up in tears … and it takes an awful lot of hugs, kisses, and cuddles to get Sammy out of his worst fits.</p><p>Sammy pouts, again, and Dean tries not to look at his round, baby-soft eyes, because he’ll fucking break … and when he breaks, he <em>always</em> gives Sammy whatever he wants. Which is why he’s soft in the first place, according to Dad.</p><p>Dean’s ability to be broken by just one <em>‘Sammy-trademark-pout.’ </em></p><p>It’s <strong>pathetic</strong> really.</p><p>How weak Dean is for <em>his</em> little Sammy.</p><p>“You’re <em>my</em> home, too, De,” Sam relents, “But that wasn’t the question!” he tops off with a whine.</p><p>Dean squeezes and rubs his eyes and scoots in closer to Sam, until they’re sitting cross-legged, knee-to-knee.</p><p>“Sam, there are some things that are best left <em>unspoken</em> about, okay? I am just trying to protect you, <strong>Kiddo</strong>,” Dean ruffles Sammy’s hair, that’s grown out again <em>(and Dean knows is gonna be hell to try and get cut in the next week or so)</em> because he knows Sammy despises it when he rucks it up.</p><p>Sammy slaps his hand away and shakes his head, flopping his hair back into place, <em>desperately</em>.</p><p>“That’s <strong>not</strong> fair, Dean! Why don’t <em>I</em> get to know anything? Why do you always treat me like I’m useless? I’m <strong>not</strong> useless … I almost <em>beat</em> you at sparring yesterday!” Sammy argues.</p><p>Dean swears that Sammy’s arguments have gotten more convincing and hard-pressed over the last few weeks. Dean’s having a <em>hell</em> of a time trying to find a work around for them.</p><p>“Almost, but you <em>still</em> struggle with keeping your right side protected. And when you start hunting, that could get you <strong>killed</strong>,” Dean chastises with a smile, “You’re not <em>useless</em>, Sammy. Not entirely,” Dean teases with a wink.</p><p>Sammy’s face turns red and his ears pinken, but Dean can’t tell if it’s from <em>genuine</em> embarrassment or <strong><em>anger</em></strong>. Angry and embarrassed Sammy look a lot alike. Not to mention, sometimes, Sammy, lashes out with anger, <em>while</em> embarrassed—<em>so there’s</em> <strong><em>that</em></strong>.</p><p>  “I hate you <strong><em>so</em></strong> much, Dean!” Sammy spews out with this look of fire and brimstone in his eyes that sends Dean’s heart plummeting to his gut in a second flat.</p><p>Dean almost feels like he can’t breathe for a second, because Sammy’s eyes look so terrifyingly intense when he says it. And the streak of anger he sends Dean’s way, could easily melt a brick wall.</p><p>Especially, when Sam finishes that harsh blow, by physically lashing out, sending Dean tumbling back on the couch, unprepared for the strike.</p><p>He lands ungracefully on his back and grunts from the <em>impact</em>, but Sammy has already climbed on top of him, and is hitting him <em>everywhere</em>, all at once.</p><p>Spewing hate like Dean has never seen out of him before!</p><p>“I <em>hate</em> you! I really <strong><em>hate</em></strong> you, De! I really, <em>really</em> <strong><em>hate</em></strong> <em>you!”</em> Sammy strikes with his closed fists and works himself up, until he’s screaming and crying at the same time.</p><p>Dean’s witnessed every meltdown that Sammy’s ever had—but this one is by far the <em>worst</em>. And it shatters Dean’s heart.</p><p>Protecting his face, with raised arms, Dean allows Sammy to keep hitting him, ignoring the rush of pain and abuse that his chest and gut takes in the interim.</p><p>It’s the only physical contact that Dean is allowed these days—<em>painful contact</em>—and he’s learned to take it in stride.</p><p>Dad has hit him, remorselessly, a great deal of times <em>(more and more in recent months) </em>and Sammy is landing bruises on fully-formed bruises that exist under the cover of Dean’s flannel shirt.</p><p>Dean stifles the pain by biting his lip until it bleeds, and eventually. Sammy runs out of stamina and closes his tiny fists around Dean’s shirt.</p><p>And that small, seemingly unimportant action sends Dean’s mind back to the first memory he has of, <em>Baby Sammy</em>, with his pouty, infant lips, sucking on the stems of Dean’s fingers. It reminds him of the smile Baby Sammy gave him while doing it, and the warm sensation that spiraled through Dean—<em>of being a big brother</em>—of being serenely happy in a way he hasn’t known <strong><em>since</em></strong>.</p><p>And his body reacts—though not as he <em>ever</em> would have expected.</p><p>The friction of Sam straddling his waist and maiming his skin, caused the heat of Sammy’s crotch to rock and grind against Dean’s own—<em>and at the worst possible moment</em>—he can feel his crotch tighten.</p><p>Sammy can feel it, too, and that’s the worst imaginable thing in Dean’s mind. He can’t explain any of his developing needs and hormones to Sam. It’s, too, <em>embarrassing</em> and Dean doesn’t even know as much about it as he <em>wishes</em> he did, because he can’t ask Dad … and his body is a complete mess.</p><p>Sammy wiggles around and Dean’s cheeks blaze red-hot and shade scarlet. Dean makes a tiny hitch of breath, because the friction feels insanely good and every single tiny twitch from Sammy is driving his spontaneous erection to throb and pulse.</p><p>Dean is about to open his mouth <em>(or better yet use his hands to shove Sammy off)</em> when one final little twitch of Sammy’s curious hips, sends him spiraling into a climax he most <em>definitely</em> doesn’t intend …</p><p>His back arches, skin glistens with broken-out sweat, and shoulders lurch as he groans and curses under his breath.</p><p>A flood of embarrassment washes over Dean and he locks eyes with a primarily confused, Sam, as slick warmth spreads throughout Dean’s boxers and skin-tight jeans.</p><p>Only when the confusing, embarrassing reaction to Sammy’s pressure caused by his weight subsides, is Dean finally able to regain control of his muscles and limbs enough to shove Sammy off of him, and he tumbles to the motel carpet with a shocked noise.</p><p>“Dean?” Sammy’s voice is struck dumb and trembling.</p><p>Dean bolts upright, ignoring Sammy, he surveys the stain in his crotch with a quick glimpse, before he scurries off the couch and hurdles into the bathroom. Closing the door and clicking the lock behind him.</p><p>“Dean?! What happened?!” Sammy asks and Dean can only stare down at the doorknob in horrified disbelief as Sammy tries to barge in <em>(like usual)</em> and is prevented by the lock that Dean’s never used on Sammy before.</p><p>Dean needs time to think and pull himself together, because the whole slew of events that just took place, don’t, <strong><em>A</em></strong>: <em>make sense</em>, and <strong><em>B</em></strong>: <em>sit right with him.</em></p><p>Sammy is perfect and innocent and most of all just Sammy … his Sammy—his <strong><em>kid</em></strong> …</p><p>And what just happened … what his body just <em>sought</em>—<strong><em>took</em></strong>—from Sammy’s, it wasn’t <strong>right</strong>.</p><p>Dean feels the pit in his stomach, manifest as today’s shitty fish-sticks school lunch, and he retches into the toilet for minutes after he’s first ill. Trying to pull himself together enough to identify his thoughts.</p><p>In his mind, just now, he’d pictured Sammy. Perfect, pink, Sammy, with his limbs tangled with Dean’s own, and his lips hot and wet against Dean’s. Impure things—<em>disgusting things</em>—and Dean feels self-loathing so intense that his insides try to wrench themselves out and wind up down the drain.</p><p>Sam starts pounding on the door, now, and Dean clenches his eyes shut and blocks Sammy out.</p><p><em>‘I’m so fucking damaged,’</em> is the first thought that crosses Dean’s mind in the interim of his current mental breakdown.</p><p>When he finally pulls himself together enough to flush the toilet and stand at the sink, he can see his eyes are red with shedding tears, and his nose is running with snot. But most of all, his cheeks are still radiantly flushed with heat which causes his distinct freckles to show all the more on his thin, red face.</p><p>Just the sight of his ugly, despicable visage makes him want to punch the mirror to smithereens, but he doesn’t, because it will scare Sammy. And Sammy doesn’t deserve to be anymore scared <em>(<strong>scarred</strong> more like)</em> than he already is.</p><p>Because Dean can’t go out there and speak to him right now.</p><p>Dean doesn’t even know the extent of what just happened himself—<em>but he does know it was <strong>wrong</strong>.</em> It was ten kinds of fucked-up, because there are some shades that should never be developed and some actions that should <em>never</em> be acted out, and that was <em>inarguably</em> one of them.</p><p>Touching Sammy is what started his mind down this warped, gnarled path.</p><p>He thinks back to the day he first calmed Sammy with those seemingly innocent touches under his infant clothes and realizes that he got a sense of satisfaction out of touching Sammy, even then.</p><p>The same level of elated satisfaction that he just received, from rubbing against Sammy just now …</p><p>Dean finally realizes what Dad sees when he looks at him. Someone that isn’t worthy of gentle touch—<em>of love</em>—because Dean’s kind of love is twisted in ways it shouldn’t be.</p><p>And he’s <em>warped</em>.</p><p>Really fucking warped.</p><p>Dean turns his back on the mirror and faces the door, listening as Sammy tires out his fist, and gives up. Lowering to the floor with a <em>‘thunk,’</em> his back pressed against the door, with little sobs on his lips.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry, De … I d-didn’t mean it … Please come o-out … Please, De … I d-don’t understand what happened …” Sammy is wracked with sobs and Dean wants to go out there and comfort him. Tell him it’s <em>not</em> his fault—<em>none of this was <strong>ever</strong> his fault</em>—but Dean can’t.</p><p>He’s still got his slick-drenched boxers and jeans on. And he desperately needs to clean himself up.</p><p>With a shudder of disgust, Dean, sheds his t-shirt, then his jeans and boxers. He steps out of them and lifts them off the floor with a confused stare.</p><p>He’s touched himself a few times, in the shower, <em>(when Sammy wasn’t looking and the curtain was closed)</em> but nothing <em>warm and slick</em> has ever come out of him in the past. His balls would churn and ache, but that was about it.</p><p>Dean hurdles his clothes back to the floor in disgust and steps into the shower. He muffles his sobs of general defeat and weakness into the sound of the shower stream, grateful that Dad isn’t around to hear him, now.</p><p>He’d be disappointed. And he’d <em>probably</em> kick his ass—and Dean would fucking <strong><em>deserve</em></strong> it, too.</p><p>In this moment, Dean, is just tired of being the one with the burden of age. His skin and bones are tired and he feels crushing defeat from his own body’s reaction to everything that’s transpired between him and Sammy.</p><p>He’s fought so hard to protect Sammy and now … now he’s just fucked it all. And he doesn’t know what he’s going to say—<em>or do</em>—when he eventually does have to go out there and <strong><em>face</em></strong> Sammy.</p><p>All he does know, is that Dad can never know about this—at least not about Sammy’s involvement in it, that is.</p><p>And that means he’s going to have to ask a favor of Sammy. A big one.</p><p>To <em>keep</em> his filthy secret.</p><p>Dean washes himself thoroughly, pressing hard on all of his bruised flesh to make damn sure he remembers how much pain he’ll be in if Dad ever finds out. He hopes it will dissuade his own mind from ever targeting Sammy again.</p><p>From ever <em>wanting</em> Sammy’s touch, <em>that way,</em> again.</p><p>And when he finally steps out of the shower and towels himself dry, he wraps the towel around his midriff and lifts his soiled clothes from the floor, finally exiting the bathroom.</p><p>Sammy makes a surprised sound when the door opens and stares up at him with big, red, puffed-out eyes, before he launches up and <strong><em>hugs</em></strong> Dean.</p><p>Dean’s whole body goes rigid and he immediately pushes Sammy back, trying to still his rapid-fire beating heart, in the process.</p><p><em>“Don’t, Sammy,</em> not right now, okay?” Dean tries not to snap, but he feels too exposed—he needs to go dig out some fresh clothes.</p><p>Sammy takes a step back and eyes him with a hurt look. “I-I’m sorry, D-De.”</p><p>Dean shuffles past him and shoves his clothes in the plastic bad for dirty clothes, kept at the end of their bed. He quickly sifts through his duffel bag, afterwards, pulling out a pair of clean clothes, heading back into the bathroom <em>(closing and locking the door much to Sam’s <strong>detest</strong>)</em> and changing at lightening speed, before heading back out into the room, again.</p><p>The shower did help clear his head a bit, but the twisted imagery of Sammy on top of him, straddling him—<em>humping against him</em>—is still there, tormenting Dean, just the same.</p><p>Sammy stands a few feet away from him, with closed fists at his side and streaks of tears down his cheeks. He looks so small in this moment to Dean.</p><p>His shoulders are hunched and his sniffles continue to increase with every moment they stand there, staring at each other.</p><p>Dean finally goes and sits down on their shared bed and beckons for Sammy to join him. “Come here, Sammy,” he says, and that’s all the encouragement Sam needs to cross the room and join him.</p><p>Sammy keeps his distance, though, and Dean is a little bit relieved about that, even though he normally wouldn’t be.</p><p>“I’m sorry, De. I’m <em>sorry</em> I hit you …” Sammy sniffles and wipes his snot and tears on his sleeve.</p><p>Dean’s stomach does a flip and he has to fight his brotherly nature, that tells him to <em>cuddle</em> Sammy.</p><p>“It’s okay, Sammy. I … I deserved it,” Dean swallows the lump that forms in his throat, and tries not to think about what Dad would say, right now, if he were here.</p><p>Sammy shakes his head and sniffles. “N-No, Dean! It wasn’t nice and … and I’m <em>sorry</em> <em>…</em> I <em>don’t</em> hate you! I <strong><em>love</em></strong> you!” Sammy corrects his previous statements, but Sammy’s affections toward him were never really in question to Dean.</p><p>Dean is the one in the wrong here, that’s what he knows in his head and his heart and he’s sticking to it.</p><p>“I know, Sammy. It’s fine, okay?” Dean asserts, hating that Sammy blames himself for even a fraction of this.</p><p>Dean has been hit by Sammy countless times, though usually when they spar together during training. It’s rare when their disagreements turn violently physical. It shouldn’t have been a problem at all. Ordinarily, it isn’t, but with these drastic changes to his body and chemistry … Dean fucked up.</p><p>Sammy nods his head, but still looks brokenly down at his own lap. “Okay, Dean,” he whispers, then seems to think of something and glances back up. “I didn’t mean to make you wet yourself,” Sammy breathes out, “It felt good … like when you touch me before bed …”</p><p>Dean’s mouth falls open and his cheeks turn scarlet all over again. His heart patters and skin ripples with emotion.</p><p><em>“What?” </em>Dean is dumbfounded—completely caught off guard. Sam thinks he … <em>peed?</em> And Sam <em>felt things</em>, too?</p><p><em>‘Fuck, that’s definitely not good,’</em> Dean thinks to himself.</p><p>This is all worse than he could have possibly imagined. It’s one thing for Sammy to think he had an <em>accident</em>—<em>he can work with</em> <strong><em>that</em></strong>—but a whole other for Sammy to have actually <strong>enjoyed</strong> it … their moment on the couch …</p><p>Sammy tears up, again, and wipes at his cheeks with his tiny fingers. “I’m sorry, Dean … I didn’t <em>mean</em> to make you embarrassed …”</p><p>Dean closes his mouth and swallows a few times in thought.</p><p>“I didn’t … that wasn’t <em>pee</em> … I mean …” Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose and clenches his jaw, tight. He doesn’t even know how to explain what this was—<em>what just happened</em>—and he doesn’t know how to <em>un-scar</em>, Sammy, either.</p><p>“It <strong>wasn’t</strong>?” Sammy stares at him perplexed, and Dean releases a few breathy sighs.</p><p>“Sammy,” Dean scoots a little bit closer, finally coming to a decision, “I need you to <strong>promise</strong> me something, okay?”</p><p>Sam’s eyes go round and wide, but he’s being attentive right now, which is a good start. “Promise <em>what</em>, De?”</p><p>“I need you to promise that you will <strong>never</strong> tell, Dad, about what happened today. Not about the couch … or my <em>pants</em> … or any of it, okay? I need you to <em>pinky</em> promise.”</p><p>Sam’s eyes go even bigger, because he knows how serious a pinky promise is. They both made a pact with each other, that when it comes to pinky promises, they never break those. <em>Ever. </em></p><p>They also promised to never tattle on each other to Dad, but this is a precaution. Dean needs the reassurance that Sam won’t slip up, for his own peace of mind.</p><p>“But … Dean—”</p><p>“No buts, Sammy, I need you to do this for me, please,” Dean interrupts and Sammy makes a pouty face.</p><p>“I don’t even understand what <em>happened</em>, Dean. You haven’t told me anything …” Sam whines.</p><p>Dean’s eyes narrow and he starts to panic internally. If Sammy tells on him, <em>(even accidently)</em> that’s the end of it. Dad will <em>murder</em> him—best case scenario, he would probably abandon him at Bobby’s or Paster Jim’s and Sammy will be all alone, <strong><em>with</em></strong> Dad.</p><p>And that’s worse than any other fate. Because Dad’s been so much <em>angrier</em> lately, and with Sammy’s suddenly argumentative tendency, Dean, has been the only thing keeping Sammy safe.</p><p>“Why do you have to be so <em>difficult?</em> Huh? Why can’t you just do what I God-damned say?! For once?” It’s unfair of Dean to say, because Sam hasn’t <em>always</em> been like this.</p><p>He’s <em>usually</em> obedient, <em>(or at least he was, up until about a month ago when the questions started)</em> but Dean just wants him to have some semblance of normal … even a <em>speckle</em> of it … and Sam isn’t making it easy. Not like he did before.</p><p>Sammy huffs and folds his arms. “Fine! You want me to keep your secret?” Sammy pushes and Dean’s eyes perk up.</p><p>“I <em>need</em> you to, Sammy …” Dean half-pleads with him.</p><p>“Then tell me the <strong><em>truth</em></strong> about Mom, Dean. You do that, and I will pinky promise <strong><em>not</em></strong> to tell Dad.”</p><p>Dean’s heart stops and his eyes bulge. This is it. This is the moment that he can either decide to break Sammy’s innocence bubble, or potentially get <em>murdered</em> by Dad when he finds out about the incident on the couch.</p><p>It’s a lose-lose situation and Dean feels panic start to rise in his chest. It’s tight and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t see a way out of it—<em>out of <strong>this</strong></em>.</p><p>“I … I can’t do <em>that</em>, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “The less you know the better. Can’t you just trust that I am trying to keep you safe? Can’t you just trust <em>me</em>, Sammy? Like you <em>used</em> to? Haven’t I always been a <strong>good</strong> big brother?” Maybe he’s asking some of this because he doubts his own abilities, himself, but the sentiment is <em>real</em>.</p><p>Dean has always tried his best. He’s <em>always</em> loved Sammy more than the whole damn world—<em>more than he reasonably <strong>should</strong></em>—and that’s what got him into this debacle in the first place.</p><p>Loving Sammy, <em>too,</em> much.</p><p>Sammy holds his ground, though. He isn’t swayed by Dean’s words this time—<em>his stubbornness takes root and hits home.</em></p><p>“It’s <em>not</em> what’s best for me, it’s what is best for <strong><em>you</em></strong>, Dean,” Sammy insists. “And I’m tired of being in the dark. So maybe I <strong>will</strong> tell, Dad. Maybe, I’ll tell him <strong><em>everything</em></strong><em>.”</em></p><p>Widespread panic seizes Dean square in the chest and he slides off the bed, backing a few inches away from it. “Y-You’d do that, Sammy? You would do that to <strong>me</strong>?”</p><p>Sammy holds his stare and shrugs his shoulders. “I <strong>might</strong>.”</p><p>Dean feels like he can’t breathe—<em>like the air in the room has been sucked out</em>—and he needs fresh air. He needs to clear his head.</p><p>Despite knowing he might get in trouble if he leaves Sammy alone and Dad were to find out, he knows that Dad will definitely beat him bloody if he finds out about the couch.</p><p>Either way, Dad, will skin him alive!</p><p>So, Dean, <em>runs</em>.</p><p>He slips on his shoes at the door and storms out of the hotel room, slamming the thick door behind him.</p><p>This tight sensation in his chest is relatively new to him, but so was the incident on the couch, so he decides it doesn’t matter. <strong><em>He</em></strong> doesn’t matter.</p><p>All he can do is get the <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> out.</p><p>Dean thought once, that Sammy would always understand that everything he does is for the good of their family. Just like Dad’s hunting is for the good of the family. But Sammy is gaining a voice—<em>a mind of his own</em>—and that’s bad news for Dean.</p><p>It’s bad news in <em>general</em>.</p><p>Dean runs until he can’t hear Sammy scream his name anymore. He runs, until he hits the sidewalk on the edge of the road. And he finally stops running when he physically <em>can’t</em> do it anymore, somewhere out of sight of the hotel.</p><p>He collapses in a heap on the grass, next to the sidewalk, on the edge of the woods. Colorado is all woods for the most part, and Dean hopes they will be moving on from this place soon, but who knows.</p><p>Dad is due back tomorrow, but its not enough time to change Sammy’s mind.</p><p>Dean sobs into his tucked-up knees and quivers in his panic. He’s showing unconscionable weakness, but what does it matter now? He’s a dead boy, come tomorrow and he knows that.</p><p>He stays out for hours, eventually pacing and whispering to himself. He probably looks like a crazy person, but he doesn’t care. He hardly notices the other people that pass him by.</p><p>And he loses track of time.</p><p>When, Dean, finally returns it’s well after dusk, using his motel key to get in. At least, Sammy, locked the door <em>(like Dean taught him)</em> and laid down a salt line, like he was supposed to.</p><p>Sammy was on their bed, tucked under the covers with his favorite bear <em>(that Dean bought him)</em> tucked under one arm, and his eyes wet with tears.</p><p>“D-Dean?” Sammy gasps when he first lays eyes on him, again.</p><p>Dean doesn’t say anything to him. He’s still hurt by their earlier conversation and he’s not in the mood to have it out, again.</p><p>He passes Dad’s vacant bed and theirs, and slams the bathroom door, locking it behind him.</p><p>In Dean’s mind, Sammy’s words were the ultimate betrayal. Their one promise to each other, was that Dad doesn’t have to know the bad stuff. If he finds out on his own, then he finds out … but they don’t tell on each other.</p><p>They don’t do that. <em>Ever.</em></p><p>Dean hears Sammy on the other side of the door, just like earlier, attempting to walk in, but Dean keeps it locked.</p><p>Eventually, Sam, talks to him through it, again. “I won’t tell, Dad, De … I was just <em>mad</em> … because … because you keep everything from me. And … and you …” Sammy sighs, “N-Never mind,” he mutters, “You <em>hate</em> me now, anyway.”</p><p>Sammy leaves the closed door and Dean’s heart tugs a little in pain.</p><p>He’s never been this <em>angry</em> at Sammy before. And right now, he really has no <strong>right</strong> to <em>be</em> angry at Sammy …</p><p>Dean was in the wrong. Dean fantasized about his little brother and felt pleasurable things while picturing it … <strong><em>not</em></strong> the other way around.</p><p>Sammy … Sammy didn’t <em>know</em> any better. Dean <strong>taught</strong> him not to know any better, when it comes to touches and <em>brushes</em> of skin.</p><p>Sammy wanted to feel good, and Dean understands that now.</p><p>After another moment of staying locked in the bathroom, Dean, finally clicks the lock and reemerges.</p><p>Sammy doesn’t try to greet him, this time. He just settles down on their shared bed and slides underneath the covers. Drawing them over his head.</p><p>Dean slips off his shoes and climbs under the covers with Sammy. Playing the big spoon, he pulls Sammy into his front and kisses the top of his head, softly.</p><p>The lights are all switched off, except the one right next to their bed, and Dean takes it upon himself to flick that one off, too.</p><p>“Sammy, I <em>don’t</em> hate you,” Dean promises, earnestly.</p><p>“You <em>should,”</em> Sammy mutters, self-deprecatingly.</p><p>“I could <strong><em>never</em></strong> hate you, Sammy,” Dean’s stomach tugs, when he makes a split-second decision to push his hands underneath Sammy’s shirt and run them along Sammy’s stomach and sides. It’s twisted, but it’s the only thing he knows how to do, to calm Sammy down when he’s like this.</p><p>“But I <em>am</em> getting older, Sammy, and I … I need my privacy sometimes, because … because that’s the way things are when kids get older,” he reasons before Sammy can ask him <em>‘why’</em> like he always does.</p><p>Sam’s breath hitches and he gasps, when Dean seeks out and exploits his weakest spots. Rubbing and squeezing the skin in just the right way to make Sammy moan and pant, simultaneously with blissed-out little noises. He delves into his sides, works the slightly pudgy skin, and listens for every little sound, like a junkie needing just one more hit, Dean, <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to hear Sammy’s sounds.</p><p>“I just want to know things, too, D-De …” Sammy makes his own bid of reasoning as he continues to push into Dean’s hands and make tiny noises in his throat, all the while.</p><p>“I will tell you about Mom on your <em>next</em> birthday, Sammy. How does that sound?” Dean offers him a tidbit. Something that won’t be easy for, Dean, but is enough to<em> (hopefully) </em>placate Sammy in meantime. His birthday isn’t for another five months, Dean, just had his own.</p><p>“Do you promise, De? No backing out? No saying I’m too little?” Sammy pesters, in-between deep groans.</p><p>Dean tries to ignore the pulse of reaction that his body gives off in time to every single moan and sigh from Sammy, but his body is reacting, all the same, much to his horror—<em>and Dean can feel his crotch tightening, <strong>again</strong>.</em></p><p>“I … I promise, Sammy. I’ll tell you <em>everything</em>, then.”</p><p>Sammy turns in his arms until they are face to face, and Dean stills his hands, trying to clear the filthy thoughts from his head. The thoughts that urge him to <em>lower</em> his caresses of Sammy.</p><p>Out of nowhere, Sammy, leans in and touches his lips to Dean’s.</p><p>The explosion in instantaneous—<em>and sudden</em>—because, Dean’s mind stalls and his skin turns to <strong>fire</strong>. His lips feel singed by the touch and he pants in his throat.</p><p>He doesn’t have time to push Sammy away, however, because Sam has already retracted when his thoughts rearrange.</p><p>“W-What <em>was</em> that?” Dean finally manages to gasp out.</p><p>“My promise, Dean,” Sammy whispers so innocently … So harmlessly … that Dean is <strong>floored</strong>.</p><p>“Your … <em>What?”</em> Dean shakes his head, trying to comprehend that his baby brother just <strong>kissed</strong> him. Full on the lips.</p><p>Sure, they’ve kissed before. Pecks, when Sammy was <em>little</em>—much, much littler … but not in the past <em>two</em> or so years!</p><p>Sammy sighs in exasperation and snuggles in closer to Dean’s chest. “My promise <em>not</em> to tell, Dad, De,” he cements. “Did I do something wrong … <em>again?</em> Are we … Am I not allowed to <strong>kiss</strong> you anymore, either, De?”</p><p>The look in Sammy’s eyes is so wounded that Dean’s stomach churns, mortally, and he immediately seeks to remedy his reaction, because he shouldn’t feel guilt for a kiss from Sammy. Sammy didn’t <em>mean</em> anything by it …</p><p>“Course you are,” Dean utters, “I was just <em>surprised</em> is all.”</p><p>Sammy smiles and nuzzles his face into Dean’s neck, changing the subject. “Your touches <em>always</em> feel so good, De. Do you think … <em>I</em> could touch <em>you?”</em></p><p>Dean’s face when Sammy pulls back must have shown his horror <em>(again)</em> because Sammy lowers his eyes, looking ashamed.</p><p>Dean is horrified, though, because this isn’t the first time Sammy’s asked this, lately. He’s asked a few times and Dean has been able to sidestep it, but this time they’re <em>in</em> bed—<em>Dean’s touching him <strong>now</strong></em>—and there’s nothing to stop Sammy from reaching out and sliding his hands under Dean’s shirt in theory.</p><p>“Sammy … I don’t think—”</p><p>“Never mind, De,” Sammy whispers in a hurry and pushes Dean’s hands away, turning his back to Dean in a second-flat. “I suppose you’re too <strong><em>old</em></strong> for that, too, now,” Dean hears him mutter in a low whisper.</p><p>Dean’s hands close into fists, and he bites hard on his bottom lip as a self-punishment for hurting Sammy’s feelings. But he can’t tell him the truth … which is that Dean’s head is in the fucking gutter, and Sammy is in the crosshairs of his inner-conflict.</p><p>Dean feels like shit and he has to swallow, hard, to keep in his tears.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything more, and Sammy doesn’t either.</p><p>Dean watches for a long time as Sammy drifts off to sleep and it takes Dean a much longer time, when he finally seeks out sleep of his own.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p><em>v. </em> <em>things forbidden &amp; detrimental.</em></p><p> </p><p>Sammy doesn’t talk to Dean at all the next day. Not when they wake up for school, nor when Dean hands Sammy his lunch, nor even on the long walk to and back from school.</p><p>Not one <em>single,</em> solitary word.</p><p>Dean doesn’t <em>try,</em> either.</p><p>It’s the first time <em>(since last night that is)</em> that Dean doesn’t really know what to say to Sammy. He feels his belly twist and churn when he even <strong>thinks</strong> about speaking to Sam, and Sam is quiet—<em>closed off.</em></p><p>It’s an <strong>impossible</strong> situation—<em>a crossroads of sorts.</em></p><p>Dean knows that his mind is fucked to pieces now, and he doesn’t know how to cope with that. How to <em>live</em> with it, more like, and Sam is clueless, but really hurt.</p><p>Which is killing Dean to be aware of, because he’s always fixed the hurt in Sammy before. And this time, he doesn’t know how. Because if he lets Sammy <em>touch</em> him <em>(the way Sammy so clearly <strong>wants</strong> to touch)</em> it’s going to trigger things inside of Dean and that’s the last thing he needs—<em>more</em> of a reason to have a tight crotch and slick-drenched bottoms, than his hormone-crazed body already has.</p><p>So, Dean, allows the silence to continue. And he cooks Sammy microwave <em>SpaghettiOs</em>, while Sam completes his homework, and Sammy doesn’t even complain <em>(for once)</em>, he just eats in silence, then goes straight off to bed, without complaint.</p><p> And it’s the first time in recent memory that Sammy doesn’t <em>ask</em> for touches and cuddles. He just turns his back on Dean and goes to sleep.</p><p>After an hour of lying in bed, next to Sammy, Dean, finds he can’t sleep, so he sits up <em>(waiting for Dad to come back)</em> with the lights switched off and the tv on low volume, so as not to wake Sammy up.</p><p>Dean must have fallen asleep in front of the tv at some point, because when he wakes back up, it’s to the feeling of rough hands shaking him alert.</p><p>Opening his eyes, Dean, makes out the shape of Dad standing over him. With an angry expression on his face.</p><p>“Come with me, Boy!” he hisses, and Dean stares up at him, perplexed, but does as he is told.</p><p>He follows Dad out to the Impala, remembering to slip on his shoes at the door along with his jacket, because its cold in January in Colorado.</p><p>The air is crisp and he shivers from the feel of it.</p><p>He climbs into the back of the Impala with Dad and closes the door behind them.</p><p>The car’s still semi-warm from the heat when it was running and Dean tries to focus on Dad with his eyes, <em>still,</em> half-lidded from sleep.</p><p>It’s been at least a couple of months since Dad has brought him out to the car for one of his <em>‘talks’</em> but Dean can’t understand what he did this time to earn the telling off he knows he’s about to receive.</p><p>Sammy was still asleep when Dad woke him up, so he couldn’t have said anything about the couch incident … So, Dean, really is in the dark about what this could <em>possibly</em> be about.</p><p>But Dad only brings him out here, when Sammy is sleeping and he wants to tell him off <em>(or punish him severely)</em> without Sammy overhearing.</p><p>Dean scrunches up his nose when he immediately smells the strong odor of liquor on Dad’s clothes and breath, this is as drunk as Dean’s <em>ever</em> seen him.</p><p>“What the fuck is <strong><em>this</em></strong><em>,</em> Boy? <em>Huh?”</em> Dad holds up the soiled boxers and jeans from yesterday and Dean’s eyes go wide.</p><p>Dad has the plastic laundry bag on the floor of the car and clearly rummaged in it, probably to see how much wash needed done, before he planned to take it, while they slept, like he sometimes does.</p><p>Mortified, Dean’s cheeks, turn solid pink and he’s grateful for the cold, because he was already a little red from the outside chill.</p><p><em>“I … um …” </em>Dean doesn’t know exactly what his body <em>did</em> in his pants, he just knows it was a pleasurable reaction and that it has to do with grown-up things, probably <em>sex</em>.</p><p>Dad never gave him the <em>‘talk’</em> so he has been trying to figure out shit on his own and it’s not been going well, so far.</p><p>“You <em>what,</em> Boy? Did you <em>masturbate</em> in your pants? Huh? Is that what you’ve been doing when I leave you <strong>alone</strong> to look after, Sammy?” Dad spits at him, this wild look in his eyes that has Dean’s skin crawling with astute fear.</p><p>Dean’s suddenly wide awake and for the first time, truly, afraid of what Dad is going to do. He’s never been like this … <em>Never.</em></p><p><em>“<strong>Master</strong>-what?”</em> Dean swallows thick in his throat and shakes his head, feeling stupid. “I don’t know what that <em>means</em> <em>…</em> I’ve been looking after, Sammy, Dad, like I <strong>always</strong> do. That was an<em> a-accident …</em> <strong><em>Just</em></strong> an accident …”</p><p>Dad’s fury only seems to grow, rather than lessen and Dean wants to flee from the Impala, but doesn’t dare.</p><p>“You call <em>this</em> an accident, Dean? Look at the <strong>state</strong> of these! <strong><em>Look</em></strong><em>!”</em> he shouts and forces them closer to Dean’s face, so Dean can clearly see the white stains dried in the crotch area.</p><p>“I-I’m s-sorry, Sir …” Dean breathes out, reverting to his <em>‘good-soldier voice.’</em></p><p>“You ain’t <strong><em>stupid</em></strong>, are you, Boy?” Dad asks, sarcastically.</p><p>“N-No, Sir!” Dean squeaks out, fearfully.</p><p>“Then you <em>know</em> what masturbating is, you’ve almost hit puberty for Chrissake! It’s tugging on your <strong>cock</strong>. Making it spill <em>cum!”</em> Dad shouts down at him, and Dean blinks back a few tears, terrified to cry in front of him, but grateful to finally have a <em>name</em> for what is happening to his body—<em>puberty.</em> “I know you fucking know what sex is, Boy!”</p><p>Dean realizes what that good sensation was, when Sammy brushed back and forth on him. It was a form of this … <em>‘masturbation’</em> Dad was talking about. And the white stuff … <em>‘cum?’ </em>Dean figures. And Dean does know a little about sex. Not a lot, just <em>some</em>. From magazines and other kids at school, that <em>talk</em>.</p><p>“It just got <em>hard …</em> and I … I didn’t do <strong>anything</strong>, honest! It just came out!” Dean lies, though due to his trembling and tears, he’s not exactly lying well. “And I know what sex is, Sir,” Dean adds as an afterthought, hating for Dad to think he’s <em>completely</em> retarded.</p><p>He’s never been a <em>smooth</em> liar, at least not when it comes to Dad. Dad knows <strong>every</strong> trick in the book. Lying is kind of Dad’s job as a hunter, and detecting them was one of his <em>many</em> jobs as a Marine.</p><p>Dean <strong><em>knows</em></strong> that.</p><p>“That’s not good <em>enough</em>, Dean!” Dad roars, “You know I don’t tolerate, none of your lies! And you know what happens when you tell me lies!”</p><p>Dean’s eyes go wide and he wants to flee, but he can’t seem to make his legs work. And anyway, Dad, is faster than him, by a mile. He’d catch him before he even got <em>ten feet</em> from the car.</p><p>There’s no escape—<em>this is <strong>going</strong> to happen!</em></p><p>“Dad! Please! I’m not lying! I’m not! I really didn’t <strong><em>do</em></strong> anything! I didn’t!” he’s blubbering and pleading, but that hard, stony look in Dad’s eye means his mind is made up. And there will <strong><em>be</em></strong> no changing it.</p><p>Dad extends his arm, wraps his hand around Dean’s bony wrist and yanks him in one swift movement over his lap. Dean shrieks when he finds his rump facing <em>upright</em> and his crotch shoved into Dad’s hard-muscled, upper-thigh.</p><p>In seconds-flat, Dad, has his jeans and boxers drawn down under his ass-cheeks and the buckle of his own belt unlatched and drawn out of his jean loops. Dean can feel Dad’s belt as it slides off of his pants, and Dean’s screaming before he even <em>feels</em> the first lash.</p><p>“Dad! Please! Please, don’t!” His futile pleas fall on deaf ears.</p><p>The first swing of the belt collides with Dean’s bared cheeks in a forceful <em>thrash</em> that has him reeling, and ass stinging.</p><p>Dean’s cries muffle into the ebony-leather seat cushion, and his hands clench into fists. The hard metal buckle leaves a welt on his left cheek when it happens to flit in just the <em>wrong</em> way.</p><p>Dad’s so furious with him, that he doesn’t let up. He brings the belt down harder and harder, until Dean is a screeching, squealing mess over his lap. His pride is <em>shattered</em> and his embarrassment has absolutely nowhere to go, so it sinks into his bones and his muscles—and seethes there like some kind of acidic <strong><em>poison</em></strong>.</p><p>Dad has belted him before, but he’s <em>always</em> given him a number—<em>an amount</em>—this time, Dad, doesn’t tell him how much punishment he’s going to have to endure.</p><p>So, Dean, loses himself in it.</p><p>At first, Dean, tries to wiggle free, to alleviate the pain, but that only makes Dad <em>angrier</em>, causing him to hold Dean’s hip tighter and really go to town on him.</p><p>
  <em>God, it hurts!</em>
</p><p>It hurts like hell and it never <strong><em>stops</em></strong> hurting!</p><p>Dean screams and cries, until his voice is hoarse and his ass is raw and bruised.</p><p>“You’re <em>never</em> going to fucking lie to me, again! You hear, Dean?!” Dad shouts, between lashes.</p><p>Dean nods his head, unable to answer through the blinding, <em>strikes</em> of raging pain.</p><p>“And you’re not going to touch yourself, instead of looking after your brother, neither!” he asserts with his all-commanding voice of authority.</p><p>Dean feels intense shame in that moment, because if Dad only knew the truth of how it happened, he might already be dead for it. And the lie is better than the truth—Dean knows that for definite now.</p><p>Maybe part of this beating is the drink talking, but Dean doesn’t think so. He understands here, now, in this moment, that Dad hates him.</p><p>He hates his flesh, hates his skin … if the number he’s doing to Dean’s searing-red ass right now is anything to go off of then, Dad, despises him.</p><p>Dean has no other explanation for <em>why</em> Dad is so upset about a tiny bodily reaction that was out of his control in the first place. It wasn’t intentional. He didn’t <strong><em>mean</em></strong> to.</p><p>
  <em>God-in-heaven, he didn’t mean to!</em>
</p><p>The pain becomes <strong><em>unbearable</em></strong>. Snot and tears are streaking down his face and Dean’s beginning to see blinding white lights in his vision.</p><p>Spots of black soon encroach on the white and the pain is so unimaginable that <em>something</em> has to give—<em>and unfortunately for Dean, it does.</em></p><p>Dean’s limbs tremble and muscles spasm, and somewhere in his haze, Dean, feels his bladder give out. Hot pee spills into his boxers that aren’t drawn down in the front, and soaks into Dad’s leg and the seat below.</p><p>Vomit comes next, and Dean is sick onto the floor of the backseat, as he struggles to stay conscious. To block out the blinding, never-ending agony.</p><p>Dad went, too, far and he’s probably, too, drunk to even <em>realize</em> it. Because Dean’s <strong><em>never</em></strong> hurt this much, before.</p><p>
  <em>Ever.</em>
</p><p>When the uncontrollable pissing starts, Dad, stops.</p><p>“Are you <em>pissing</em>, Boy?” Dad asks, but he doesn’t sound mad anymore, he sounds <strong><em>concerned</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean can’t answer, he’s too busy losing his SpaghettiOs dinner, to the backseat carpet.</p><p><em>“Shit!”</em> Dean hears Dad say and that’s the last thing Dean makes out—<em>before he passes out.</em></p><p>Dean drifts in and out of consciousness, after that. His mind wants to wake up—he wants to <em>apologize</em> for what he did over Dad’s lap. And he’s humiliated, because he hasn’t pissed himself since he was five and had one of his various nightmares about Mom.</p><p>But it hurt <em>so</em> fucking much—and it still hurts <em>so</em> fucking much—and Dean <strong><em>couldn’t</em></strong> hold it. He tried <em>so</em> hard …</p><p>When he opens his eyes next, he sees, Dad, standing next to the bathtub, and Dean’s naked, being sprayed down with warm water … soothed by the heated shower spray.</p><p>Dean hums and whispers, <em>“Dad … M’ sorry …”</em> before he loses more time.</p><p>Maybe he’s in <em>shock</em>. That has to be what it is.</p><p>Shock from the enormous and brutal amount of pain and from the way Dad reacted to his soiled bottoms in the first place.</p><p>What <em>was</em> that about? Why did he <em>react</em> like that?</p><p>When Dean opens his eyes again, he’s dressed in only a large black <em>‘Led Zepplin’</em> t-shirt that he identifies as one of Dad’s. His bottom is bare and he’s in Dad’s bed, instead of his and Sammy’s.</p><p>Dean takes a lazy glance to his left and sees that Sammy is still sound asleep <em>(that kid could sleep through a damn earthquake and that’s no exaggeration)</em> and he’s even snoring.</p><p>Looking to his right, Dean, realizes that Dad is positioned on the edge of the bed. Dean’s vision is blurred a little but he realizes there are tears in Dad’s eyes.</p><p>He can’t remember the last time he saw actual tears in Dad’s eyes, and Dean frowns. Wondering why Dad’s crying, but he’s too weak to ask the question as it forms, so he doesn’t. </p><p>Dad gives him a pill and some water, telling him to drink—so Dean does as he is told, obediently. He recognizes the bottle as Dad’s pain medicine for his back, which has troubled him since the war.</p><p>Dean’s never been allowed to have any before. Ever.</p><p>Dean sighs and loses a few minutes.</p><p>When he comes to, again, Dad is holding some kind of tube with cream inside. Dean watches, curiously, as Dad reaches out with a bit of the cream in his palm and starts to rub it into Dean’s bare ass.</p><p>The smarting, burning pain strikes up <em>(astronomically)</em> all-throughout Dean’s ass and upper-thighs, where Dad struck him. He screeches from the renewed boughs of agonized bereavement, swelling up his tender flesh.</p><p>He fists the pillow under his head and tries to keep in his tears <em>(not wanting to show even more weakness than he did when he pissed and vomited everywhere)</em> but he can’t help it.</p><p>Dean starts to cry.</p><p>Little sobs shake his shoulders and he wants to die.</p><p>
  <em>Right here. Right now.</em>
</p><p>He deserves to, for the naughty thoughts about Sammy, and the lies he told Dad. But most of all, he wants to die, because Dad must <em>hate</em> him, so much, to do <strong><em>this</em></strong> to him.</p><p>All he ever wanted was Dad’s <em>love</em> after Mom died.</p><p>It’s all he’s been striving for, by being a good soldier, and looking after Sammy, as his own. But he’s not <em>good</em> enough.</p><p>He’ll never <em>be</em> good enough.</p><p>Not for Dad, and not for Sammy who won’t even speak to him right now.</p><p>“Shhh … It’s alright … I’m <em>here,</em> Dean,” Dad croons to him, with a softness to his tone that Dean hasn’t heard in <strong>years</strong>. Not since before the fire, when Dean would get sick, Dad, would talk to him this way.</p><p>Soothe his fever with warm, wet cloths and whispers, and sometimes even give him kisses. Or rub his back and stomach … the way Dean does with <em>Sammy</em>.</p><p>As if he reads his mind, Dad, wipes his hand off on a small hand towel, and begins to run his hand up the base of Dean’s back, trailing underneath the oversize black t-shirt.</p><p>Dean’s positioned half on his left side, half on his stomach. His left thigh underneath his side, and his chest half against the mattress, so that he is partially facing Dad.</p><p><em>“D-Dad …”</em> he croaks out, but his voice is barely a whisper and Dean wonders if he lost his voice from screaming, too, hard. He figures he might have, but he’s too weak to know with any kind of certainty.</p><p>Low keens break through the air when Dad’s thick, coarse fingers find purchase along Dean’s back, massaging the nodules of his spine then straight back down and around to the side, brushing the curve of Dean’s hip and waist, straight around to the front to graze Dean’s soft belly.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Dean,” comes Dad’s uncannily <em>gentle</em> whispers. “I shouldn’t have beat you for it … <em>Forgive me, Son.”</em></p><p>Dean can’t tell if he’s in a dream or if this is all <em>real</em>. His head is, too, foggy and he’s in just too much pain to puzzle it all out. Dad would <strong><em>never</em></strong> apologize. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard him <em>apologize</em> before, actually.</p><p>Dean closes his eyes and wets his bottom lip with a drag of his tongue. Dad comes in closer, now. Dean can make out the sordid tears that have made wet trails down Dad’s cheeks.</p><p>If he were stronger, he might have reached out to touch them and make sure that they <em>are</em> actually real, but his strength is entirely depleted from thrashing in the Impala.</p><p>Dad is so close that Dean can smell the stale cigarettes and cheap perfume that <em>clings</em> to his clothes. Dean knows the scent to be that of a woman. Dean’s naïve to some things, but not to <strong><em>that</em></strong> scent.</p><p>Dad’s been <em>with</em> a woman.</p><p>Dean is aware that Dad has sought comfort with women. He’s seen him flirt, he knows a <em>little</em> about sex and pleasures of the flesh. Not much, just the basic premise. Kissing, touching <em>… like he does with Sammy.</em></p><p>That thought snaps into Dean’s mind and he throws it back out, <em>immediately</em>. He won’t think about <em>Sammy and contact</em>, not right now.</p><p>But it’s, too, <strong>late</strong>.</p><p>Just thinking about Sammy, while his Dad caresses his mottled flesh, sees him growing <em>stiff</em> and <strong>engorged</strong> between his thighs. His erect protrusion points up and grazes Dad’s wrist from where it’s settled near his pelvis to his lower belly.</p><p>Dean’s cheeks heat red and he’s mortified by his body’s reaction. His erections are the <em>whole</em> reason he got into this mess in the first damned place!</p><p>Dad’s hand goes still and his eyes lower from Dean’s own, dropping down to take in the state of Dean’s still-developing boyhood for himself.</p><p>Dad’s arm is positioned in such a way, that the shirt fabric is drawn up and away from the front of Dean’s belly and abdomen, leaving him <em>fully</em> on display from the waist down.</p><p>“You getting <em>excited</em>, Dean?” to Dean’s distinct surprise, Dad, doesn’t sound the least bit upset.</p><p>In fact, his voice is gravelly and low—<em>almost piqued.</em></p><p>Dean is mortified and he can’t so much as nod his head, because he’s still slightly <em>afraid</em> of what Dad will do next.</p><p>“She’d get wet, when I touched, <em>her</em>, like this, too,” Dad slurs out, and Dean’s mind registers <em>(anew)</em> that Dad is still, incredibly drunk.</p><p>Dean’s sluggish mind takes a moment to realize who Dad means by, <em>she</em>.</p><p><strong> <em>Mom</em> </strong> <em>.</em></p><p>“I lose <em>her</em> and I’m left with <em>you</em> … a <em>reminder</em> of her. A male <strong>reflection</strong> of my wife,” Dad sighs out with a tortured sound in his throat. “It’s almost <em>more</em> than I can bear some nights. When I look at you … and I <em>need</em> to touch you, Dean. But if I do, I’ll never <strong><em>stop</em></strong> touching you, Son. Because you’re so <em>much</em> like her. And it makes the frustration, too, much to bear.”</p><p>Dean trembles as his mind grasps what Dad is saying. He can practically <em>taste</em> the longing that hangs in the air. Dad’s <em>ache</em>—<em>his compulsive need.</em></p><p>“I take as <em>many</em> women as I can, as <em>often</em> as I can, and <em>still …</em> You’re my <strong><em>greatest</em></strong> temptation, Dean. And I got so mad, tonight. When you looked up at me with those <em>confused</em> eyes and you lied about something so simple as cumming in your trousers, and I lost it.”</p><p>Dad sighs and Dean tries to follow his words. The explanation he’s hungered for, for years.</p><p>Why Dad <em>avoids</em> him—<em>Why Dad struggles to <strong>look</strong> at him</em>—<em>to <strong>love</strong> him.</em></p><p>“I promised myself I’d <em>never</em> lose it, but I did. And I <strong>hurt</strong> you. Worse than if I <em>touched</em> you and I’m sorry, Son. I pray to God you won’t <em>remember</em> this, tomorrow. I pray every night, that I’ll have the <em>strength</em> to let you alone.”</p><p>Dean connects to his Dad’s prayers. He <em>understands</em> them, on a deep level, now that he’s discovered his <strong>own</strong> secret shame—<em>his secret, <strong>need</strong> for, Sammy.</em></p><p>And it occurs to him that there’s a sickness in their family.</p><p>A sickness that lives in <em>Dad</em>. And now resides in <strong><em>him</em></strong><em>,</em> too.</p><p>Then, all at once, Dad leans in and presses his lips to Dean’s. The same as Sammy did, yesterday, and Dean screams in his mind for the bed to swallow him whole.</p><p>Because this is <em>his</em> fault.</p><p>He tempts Dad by <em>existing</em>, lures him into a gnarled <em>dark</em> place, and keeps him there until he <em>implodes</em> from it.</p><p>Despite all of that, Dean, works his lips against Dad’s, learning as he goes. Matching him, <em>graze for graze</em>, until the kiss breaks and he’s left flushed on his cheeks and <em>swollen</em> with a throb between his thighs.</p><p>The taste of salt from Dad’s tears that leaked into the kiss, are left behind on Dean’s lips and he gasps, <em>acutely</em> when Dad’s fingers encase his length and start to drag and roll from base to tip, in slow, languid movements.</p><p>Broiling heat ignites throughout Dean’s lower belly, stirring his loins and spreading up his torso and into his chest cavity.</p><p>The heat is almost <em>more</em> than he can withstand and it somehow feels enormously different than it did when Sammy ground his hips down and rubbed him <strong>through</strong> all his clothes.</p><p>Dean is <em>lost</em> in profound need, in seconds and his head starts to feel even more heavy than it did before, and Dean realizes the <em>medicine</em> must be starting to kick in, because the pain in his ass is starting to fade, as <strong><em>all</em></strong> of his focus turns to his boy-part.</p><p>“That’s it, Dean,” Dad lulls into his ear, “S’okay. Just <em>relax</em> and let me make it <em>better</em>, for you. Let me take <em>care</em> of you,” Dad says it like an order and Dean’s <em>‘perfect-little-soldier’</em> mentality kicks in, and he eases into his bones.</p><p>Allowing his limbs to fall slack, and eyes to draw closed he arches his spine and <em>chases</em> the glorious tugs Dad provides him.</p><p><em>“D-Daddy …”</em> the word just slips out of Dean’s loose lips, and he realizes he’s not called Dad that, since <em>before</em> the fire.</p><p>He’s always <em>‘Dad,’</em> or <em>‘Sir,’</em> to Dean, now.</p><p>Secondly, he realizes <em>(though his voice is very hoarse) </em>it can be used, after all.</p><p><em>“Shh …</em> Just let it <em>happen,</em> Dean. It’s <strong><em>alright</em></strong>. I won’t be <em>mad</em>, this time,” Dad promises and the reassurance allows Dean to truly relax his muscles, going slack on Dad’s hotel bed, making only the tiniest of ruts with his hips.</p><p>Dean’s lips part and cheeks flare scarlet, as that same unfamiliar sensation Dean experienced with Sammy on the couch, reignites. Spreading from his crotch, straight up his belly, and down his arms, straight down to his toes.</p><p>Dean vaguely notices Dad reaching for the discarded hand towel, holding it under Dean’s tiny cock-tip, in preparation for Dean’s emissions to ooze out onto it, with every little throb, which they <em>do</em>.</p><p>
  <em>“That’s it, there you go. That feels <strong>good</strong>, doesn’t it?” </em>
</p><p>Dean’s exhaustion triplicates as he slowly comes down from his high and peers up at Dad through half-lidded optics.</p><p><em>“Y-Yes …”</em> is all he can manage to say in way of response.</p><p>Dean starts to feel the effects of his shame and humiliation, from getting stiff and then getting <em>off</em> in Dad’s hand, but he’s so damned woozy and tired that all of his thoughts and moralities have blended together.</p><p>Dean jerks when he feels Dad wiping his cock-tip with a clean part of the soiled hand towel, and shudders with sensitivity, until he finishes.</p><p>The next thing Dean feels is Dad lowering the oversize shirt back down to cover his lower half, again. His sensitized boy-part, now going soft and limp, again.</p><p>“Go to sleep, now, Son,” Dad whispers, “I’ll be <em>gone</em> by morning. I promise.” Dad starts to brush his skin, kneading his shoulder and waist with careful grazes.</p><p>Dean doesn’t quite understand what Dad says, and he’s far too drained to <em>care</em>, at the moment. And Dad’s touch feels even more glorious to his newly sensitive skin, that still vibrates with <em>energy</em> from his cumming.</p><p>Dean just closes his mind and allows it to <strong>drift</strong> away. Blissed-out from the combination of <em>strange</em> medicine and <strong><em>arousing</em></strong> contact from Dad.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <i> Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. part 2; deep enough to break splendor.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <i> One event, rips Dean apart for life. Cementing his path. Sam's, too.<br/>Set over the course of a couple months.<br/>Dean is 11.<br/>Sam is 7.</i>
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          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>This installment was much more challenging for me to write, because I kept tweaking it, and reworking bits of it , and really delving into Dean and his mindset. I am pleased with how it turned out, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I can't believe the overwhelming response of excitement that is surrounding this work, I definitely didn't expect it, and it means so much so thank you all! It will get a bit worse, before it gets better though, so grab some tissues and prepare yourself guys! You are in for a few bumps! </i>
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    <em>When love is involved</em>
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    <em>no sacrifice is, too, great.</em>
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  <strong>
    <em>part 2; deep enough to break splendor.</em>
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<hr/><p> </p><p>
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  <em>vi. skin &amp; fire.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Dean cracks his eyes open, next, the hulking figure of Dad is gone and he can see a crack of the sun shining just behind the drawn hotel darkening curtains.</p><p>The wooziness is still thick in Dean’s mind, clouding his thoughts and making him sluggish. The pill Dad gave him, was no joke, and that’s Dean’s first thought when he comes to.</p><p>Dean shifts a little and is immediately struck with searing pain that overtakes his ass and the backs of his thighs.</p><p>A choked gasp escapes his lips and he breathes through the pain, trying <em>not</em> to be a wuss—<em>but it hurts so <strong>goddamned</strong> much!</em></p><p>He can’t turn himself around to survey the damage for himself, but he knows it must be very extensive. He feels the worst he’s <em>ever</em> felt.</p><p>Suddenly, the conversation with Dad begins to come back to him in waves. The whispers about <em>Mom</em> … the touches under his shirt … and the release of <em>cum</em> from his cock.</p><p>Dean buries his face in Dad’s pillow, as he tries to work out exactly what transpired and <em>why</em> it did.</p><p><em>Mom …</em> He recollects Dad mentioning to him <em>again</em> how much he is like Mom …</p><p>Swallowing through that realization, Dean, glances around the room in search of, Dad, but realizes he’s not in sight.</p><p>The only person that <em>is</em> in the room with him is Sammy.</p><p>Fast asleep, with the covers tangled in his limbs, and a snore on his lips.</p><p>Cursing under his breath, Dean, manages to scoot on his belly on over to Dad’s bedside table where he glimpses a note and some bills held down with a glass of water.</p><p>Gingerly, Dean, shifts the glass aside, snatches up the note, and skims it in a hurry.</p><p>
  <em>‘Forgive me, Dean. I will be back in a month, here’s some cash to get you and Sammy through. Ask Sammy with help putting on the cream. I also left some pills for the pain. Take them sparingly. Dad.’</em>
</p><p>Dean re-reads the note at least three times, and glances back up to notice the bottle of pills and tube of cream from last night, he’d first overlooked.</p><p>Dean’s heart sinks as he stares down at the five twenties Dad left behind, to <em>‘get them through’</em> the month. He tugs the note and cash into the nightstand drawer beside the bed and heaves out a sigh.</p><p>A month <em>(without physically checking in)</em> is the longest Dad has ever left them and Dean is well aware that he’s the cause of Dad’s absence. Not hunting.</p><p>Dean just wants to check out and he’s thankful that today is Parent-Teacher conferences, which means that neither he nor Sammy have to go to school.</p><p>He can’t really move, anyway. He’s much, too, sore and he just wants to sleep.</p><p>With one last glimpse in Sammy’s direction, he reaches for the pills Dad left and pops one in his mouth and drinks it down with the glass of water Dad left.</p><p>Dean doesn’t want to think any more about <em>anything</em> that happened last night, and this is the perfect way to drift off. The perfect escape from his drab, shitty, existence.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean wakes to the dip of the mattress and a knee to the spine. He lets out a loud <em>‘yelp’</em> as Sammy haplessly digs into his sore ass with the same knee and, Dean, doubles over in excruciating pain.</p><p><em>“Sammy!”</em> Dean grunts out and opens his eyes to the blurry haze, created by the pill.</p><p>Sam seems to realize that he did something wrong and backs up a few inches. Before Dean can stop him, he sheds the covers off of Dean to reveal his sore, battered ass and thighs.</p><p>Dad’s t-shirt having ridden up again while he slept and Dean flinches in preparation for Sam’s reaction.</p><p>Dad usually doesn’t belt him in front of Sammy, and it has always been a tolerable amount of strikes so, Dean has been successful <em>(up till now that is)</em> about hiding the truth from Sammy about Dad’s unseemly temper, when it comes to Dean.</p><p>Dean hasn’t wanted to burst Sammy’s bubble about Dad’s temperament. He tries so damned hard to let the kid have a normal childhood. At least to some sort of degree, anyway. But the tide is fucking against him.</p><p>“Dean! What happened?” Sammy chews his bottom lip and before Dean can answer says, “Dad, did this to you?”</p><p>Dean hisses, sucking in a breath when Sammy, very delicately, grazes the marred skin. Just that subtle touch sends him <em>reeling</em>.</p><p>“Fuck … Sammy … Let me <em>alone,</em> alright? Just let me alone …” Dean tries to draw up the covers, but Sammy is already taking it upon himself to slide underneath them.</p><p>In a hurry, he’s pushing his face into Dean’s shoulder and clinging to Dean’s torso, while also being <strong>very</strong> careful of Dean’s sore bottom-half.</p><p>“A-Are you gonna die<em>, too,</em> De? Like, <em>Mom?</em> Are you gonna leave me all alone?” Sam’s heartbreaking cries shoot straight into Dean’s heart and latch on. Making him seize up with shock and horror.</p><p><em>“W-What?”</em> Dean squints through his haze and grunts from the inertia of physical contact with Sam.</p><p>“Please don’t die on me, De!” Sammy sobs out into Dad’s shirt collar.</p><p>
  <em>Jesus Christ this kid is going to be the death of him!</em>
</p><p>“Sammy, I ain’t going <em>nowhere</em>, alright? You’re <em>stuck</em> with me, Kiddo,” Dean relents and kisses the top of Sammy’s skelp, smoothing his fingers through Sammy’s silky hair.</p><p>“You <em>promise</em>, De?” Sammy whines, peeking up at him with sorrow-swept eyes.</p><p>“Course I do. I ain’t dying. I’m just a little <em>sore</em> is all. You just gotta be <strong>careful</strong> with me, alright?” Dean explains, while trying to ignore the pit of worry that encroaches on his heart when he thinks about an entire <em>month</em> without, Dad, taking care of Sammy on his own.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know if he will be able to <em>control</em> himself. Control the urges that tell him to <strong>kiss</strong> Sammy on the lips, like Dad kissed <em>him</em> last night.</p><p>Dean blinks trying to get the vision of last night out of his head. Dean’s skin still feels <em>tainted</em> from it. His self-image is all warped out of proportion and he doesn’t know what to make of himself anymore.</p><p>Dad has him thinking that he’s the scourge of the very <em>Earth</em> itself.</p><p>How can he be anything less, when he twists Dad all up inside, and twists himself up, thinking about <em>Sammy?</em></p><p>There’s so much warped in him, that he doesn’t know quite <em>how</em> to fix it. How to stay away from Sammy when Sammy needs him so much?</p><p>“Why did Dad <em>hurt</em> you, Dean? I didn’t say nothing to him, honest!” Sammy wonders, aloud.</p><p>Dean eases his wrecked body onto his side, so that he can better face, Sammy.</p><p>“I know you didn’t, Sammy. This s’not your fault, alright? I fucked up. <em>Just me.</em> And it’s got <strong>nothing</strong> to do with you,” Dean tells him a white lie, but knows it’s ultimately for the best.</p><p>Dean was the one that <em>came</em> in his trousers. Dean was the one that got aroused by Sammy, <strong><em>not</em></strong> the other way around.</p><p>Sammy pouts with that irresistible little look on his face and Dean leans down to kiss the tip of Sammy’s nose, because his inhibitions are exceptionally <em>low</em> right now. The drug hampering some of his pain is still heavily in his system.</p><p>Dean’s finding it somewhat difficult to <em>control</em> his impulses.</p><p>Sammy’s features soften and he brushes his hands down the front of the oversize black shirt, brushing Dean’s skin.</p><p>“I’m sorry for shutting you out, De,” Sammy says. “It wasn’t <em>nice.”</em></p><p>Dean shrugs his shoulders and allows himself to fade into the gentle touch. “I’m not <em>mad</em> at you, Sammy. S’alright,” Dean promises him.</p><p>Sammy doesn’t ask permission this time. Before Dean can stop him, his hands have already slid under the hem of Dad’s shirt and began to trace and knead Dean’s flesh.</p><p>Sam makes a <strong>trail</strong> right up Dean’s belly, and around to his back, causing spreading tingles wherever his little fingers drag.</p><p>Dean grunts and gasps, trying to summon the will to shove Sammy away—<em>but finds he can’t.</em></p><p>He just <strong><em>can’t</em></strong>.</p><p>It feels like heavenly bliss and after last nights brutalization, Dean, craves every soft touch he can seek. Even if it is Sammy’s hands that are on him, this time.</p><p><strong><em>Not</em></strong> <em>Dad’s.</em></p><p><em>“Sammy …</em> <em>Sam …”</em> Dean moans Sam’s name, over and over, through his smarmy haze, arching and brushing his heated, sweaty flesh into those soft, gentle hands.</p><p>Sam’s tender, easing touch is a <em>stark</em> contrast to Dad’s coarse, rough massages from last night. <strong><em>Both</em></strong> feel good, but something about <em>Sammy</em> makes him hot and cold all over.</p><p>Dean shivers and reaches for, Sam, as his mind begins to slip back into a sort of twilight-swirl of colors and dulled senses.</p><p>“Please let me <strong>help</strong>, De. Like you <em>always</em> do for me,” Sammy says it so innocent-like and in Dean’s detached mindset, he makes the split-second decision to let Sammy do <strong>whatever</strong> he wants.</p><p>
  <em>Just once.</em>
</p><p>“Alright, Sammy. <em>Just</em> this once …” Dean caves in, and draws a content Sammy <em>in</em> close as can be.</p><p>The warmth of Sammy’s palms, are like drowning in blissful oceanic waves of peace and Dean <em>(for the moment)</em> doesn’t care if he succumbs and drowns.</p><p>Dean starts to remember how Dad eased a hand down against the bare poke of his boy-part, last night. How he stroked and rubbed him into a blissed-out pile of amped-up <em>sensation</em>. And he makes <em>another</em> decision.</p><p>He pushes one of his hands down into Sam’s boxers in <em>exploration</em>. Dean decides <em>(without really thinking it through)</em> to work out, whether all of Sam’s intentions are childhood innocence, or driven by the same urges <em>Dean</em> has—<em>and Dad has</em>—<em>because (in his drugged-up psyche)</em> he wants to be certain that Sam hasn’t inherited their family sickness.</p><p>Dean figures that if Sammy has <em>no</em> reaction, then he is <strong><em>truly</em></strong> innocent. But if he <em>stiffens</em> and <em>cums</em> … well … then he’s just <em>like</em> Dad and Dean.</p><p>It’s not logical and were he thinking <em>straight</em> and narrow he would have been horrified, but he’s <strong>not</strong> thinking straight, and he isn’t in a practical place in his mind to care.</p><p>And, oh, the precious <em>noises</em> Sammy makes when he starts to rub and tug on his teeny, prick is almost <em>euphoric</em> to Dean.</p><p>“D-De!” Sammy squeals and his touches to Dean’s skin <strong>still</strong> in his shock.</p><p>Dean has washed Sammy in the warm encompass of bathwater before, but he’s never purposefully set out to arouse him there. As far as Dean knows, Sammy, has <em>never</em> discovered how good this part of him can truly feel.</p><p>That much was made evident by Sammy’s attempted explanation of the couch incident the other night.</p><p>Almost on contact, Dean, senses Sammy’s boy-part begin to stiffen. And within <em>thirty</em> seconds, Sam, is sporting a full-size woody in Dean’s grip.</p><p>Sam is <em>small</em> down here. <em>Undeveloped and <strong>pink</strong></em>. Dean knows from bathing and undressing Sammy just <em>how</em> pink he is down here. And with all the blood rushing down south, he must be <em>red</em>—<strong><em>engorged</em></strong>.</p><p>And were Dean able to feel <em>shame</em>—<em>he would right now.</em> Because he’s now sporting a stiffy, too, in reaction to Sam’s.</p><p>“This feel <em>good?”</em> Dean whispers, mimicking their Dad’s teasing words to him last night.</p><p>Sam bucks his agile hips and seeks the friction that Dean provides with every solid movement from base to tip. He matches Sam’s hip lurches, beat for beat—<em>touch for touch</em>—until Sammy is a squirmy, red-cheeked, mess against him on Dad’s hotel bed.</p><p>If Sammy answers, it comes out in muffles that Dean can’t quite make out with his slow-paced mind.</p><p>Dean marvels at the pure sensitivity of Sammy, between his thighs. The noises he makes are downright enjoyable, to witness.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for Sammy to stiffen, while his cock pulsates against Dean’s palm. Although, Dean, notices there isn’t any fluid leaking out Sammy peak <em>invariably</em> has hit.</p><p>Dean keeps Sam pinned to his front as he rides out his release, panting and squirming this way and that.</p><p>Dean retracts his fist and tries to combat his <strong>own</strong> throbbing need, by breathing through it. Ignoring his <em>racing</em> heartbeat in his chest.</p><p>Sam swallows thickly and tightens his hands that are still under Dean’s shirt, in proximity to Dean’s shoulders, as Sam strains to catch his breath.</p><p>“Dean … I—”</p><p>Dean cuts him off by swooping down to steal a <em>tiny</em> kiss from Sam’s lips. He hopes its enough to silence <strong><em>whatever</em></strong> questions were about to emerge from Sam, next.</p><p>It does appear that way, too, because when he does retract, Sam, stares up at him with wide, curious eyes, and a speechless appearance.</p><p>“No <em>questions</em>. Just <strong>sleep</strong> with me, Sammy,” Dean grumbles, tiredly. <em>“Please.”</em></p><p>Sammy eventually bobs his head in silent agreement, and settles down to rest in Dean’s arms.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next few days are an insipid <em>blur</em> of heat and shadows. Dean sleeps through ninety percent of it, which leaves Sammy to walk himself to school. And Dean feels <em>awful</em> about that.</p><p>Dean is the big brother and that means he should <strong><em>always</em></strong> be there, for Sammy. But the pain in his rear and thighs proves, too, <strong><em>excruciating</em></strong> and the guilt even harder to bear.</p><p>Dean has to trust that Sammy can <em>use</em> the pocketknife Dad gave him, in case of any trouble outside of the hotel room, and Sammy always comes back right after school lets out, like always.</p><p>The pills keep Dean relaxed and <em>mostly</em> sedated, which is just fine with him. It means he gets to check out of his existence. And try like <strong><em>hell</em></strong> to forget the things he desperately needs to.</p><p>The homework stack that Sam carries home for him every afternoon is piling up, and by <em>Friday</em>, Dean is finally able to sit up in bed and actually complete some of it. Dean has had to call the school, impersonating Dad each morning, in order to make up a <em>believable</em> illness for himself.</p><p>Dean came up with <em>Pneumonia</em>.</p><p>Sammy rubs the cream into Dean’s aching buttocks every night, without Dean having to ask him to, and its worked <em>wonders</em> on his marked-up skin.</p><p>Dean has glanced in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and is well aware that he’s going to have <em>permanent</em> scars from where Dad’s belt actually sliced open his cheeks and thighs on both sides, when the buckle would hit and nick flesh.</p><p>Some of the wounds are <em>repetitive</em> and <strong>deep</strong>.</p><p>Today, is Monday and it has been <em>almost</em> a full week since, Dad, beat him senseless.</p><p>It’s also the first day that he decides he can’t miss anymore school <em>(without causing unwanted suspicion)</em> and reluctantly unwinds himself from Sam when the bedside alarm goes off, and shakes Sam awake, beside him.</p><p>Although the days are <em>(mostly)</em> one big augmented blur, Dean, remembers <em>(plain as day)</em> about his little experiment with Sam, and his <em>demented</em> touch-session with Dad.</p><p>Both of those memories are very, <em>very</em> apparent in his memory banks. They are gouged in deep and Dean knows they aren’t likely to <em>ever</em> leave him, now.</p><p>Dean finally crossed the nonsequential line in the sand with Sammy, and obliterated his relationship with Dad all in one twenty-four-hour period.</p><p>It really must be some kind of record, because Dean has <em>never</em> been so sloppy before. But that medicine … it <em>does</em> things to him … and maybe he shouldn’t have kept taking it after the first time, but the pain had won out, in the end.</p><p>Dean stares at the pill bottle <em>(it still has a good ten pills or so inside) </em>and he reluctantly plants it in the nightstand drawer, deciding here and now, that he <strong>won’t</strong> be taking it again.</p><p>Not for any reason. <em>Ever.</em></p><p>Sammy deserves to have a brother that <strong>doesn’t</strong> confuse him. Dean’s touches were passably innocent <em>before</em> he took that drug—<em>now</em>—now Dean knows that Sammy is going to start asking him about what he <em>did</em> that first day <em>(now that Dean is coherent and somewhat back to normal) </em>because Dean wasn’t able to say much that <strong>was</strong> coherent, this last week.</p><p>Dean also can’t seem to stop thinking about what Dad whispered to him, when he hoped Dean might be too <em>drugged up</em> to remember. How much he struggles <strong><em>not</em></strong> to touch him—<em>not to hurt him.</em></p><p>And just thinking about <em>that</em>, ties Dean up internally.</p><p>While he was down and out, Dean, had to trust Sammy with the money Dad left, and they are already down sixty dollars on food, which doesn’t leave <strong><em>nearly</em></strong> enough for the rest of the month.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know <strong><em>what</em></strong> he’s going to do about it.</p><p>But he’s <em>older</em>—<em>it’s his responsibility to figure it all out for Sammy.</em></p><p>Even if that means skipping meals, <em>himself</em>. After what he did to Sammy last week, Dean, figures he doesn’t really deserve to have a full belly, anyhow.</p><p>Sammy has already climbed out of bed and started slapping peanut butter on bread for breakfast by the time, Dean, manages to coax himself back out of his own head, eying Sam sleepily from across the room.</p><p>Dean figures the pain medicine will probably take the entire day to wear off, especially after five days of dosing himself.</p><p>Rubbing at his eyes, Dean, has to coerce his exhausted body to stand upright in order to walk over and settle down at the table. Dean reaches for the bread and takes out a slice, gnawing absently on it.</p><p>The loaf is already half-gone from Sam eating a couple sandwiches over the past days. Dean can remember nibbling on snacks mostly <em>(while he was bedridden and wantonly out of it, that is) </em>given to him by Sammy.</p><p>Snacks and junk food, is probably where the money all went. Now that Dean is actually able to take a glance around, he can see all the wrappers and containers, laying scattered around.</p><p>
  <em>Jesus Christ!</em>
</p><p>He needs to tidy up a bit.</p><p>If Dad were here, he’d have something to say about the state of this place. Dad’s <strong>always</strong> been tidy, because of his whole, <em>‘Ex-Marine,’</em> status.</p><p>“You gonna be <em>up</em> for school, De?” Sammy asks, conversationally, and puts the knife in the washing tub, where a stack of week-old dishes already reside.</p><p>The truthful answer is <em>‘most definitely not,’</em> but Dean doesn’t want Sammy to worry about him. Dean can still hear Sammy’s weak and terrified pleas for him not to <em>‘die,’</em> like <em>‘Mom,’</em> and he knows Sam has been having wretched nightmares about it.</p><p>Dean’s woken more than once to Sammy thrashing about at his side.</p><p>Dean made the decision that he needs to be tough—<em>like Dad expects him to be</em>—and maybe things will get better. Dean’s ass is still tender, but sitting on it isn’t impossible anymore, even on this rock-hard chair. It’s not so bad, thanks to that miracle cream Dad left him.</p><p>“I’m fine, Kiddo,” Dean says, while forcing a weak smile. “I don’t want you worryin’ about me.”</p><p>Sam gives him a not-so-convinced look, but shrugs it off, again after a moment, clearly making a here and now decision to pick his battles.</p><p>“If you say so, Dean,” Sammy mumbles.</p><p>“I do,” Dean shoots back and ties the bread back up, topping off the tiny piece he took.</p><p>“How much food we <em>got</em>, Sammy?” Dean changes the subject, hoping for better news on their <strong>reserves</strong>.</p><p>Sammy sits down and starts working on his sandwich, chewing slowly and meaningfully. Dean knows he’s <em>stalling</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>“Just tell me,” Dean sighs.</p><p>Sammy rolls his shoulders and swallows his bite. “Just the bread … and peanut butter. Um,” Sammy nods toward the mini fridge, “There’s <em>some</em> milk and a little bit of ham and cheese left, but that’s it.”</p><p>Dean rubs his eyes trying to keep himself together. The food is going to be gone in <em>two days</em> then.</p><p>
  <em>Great.</em>
</p><p>And he has <em>forty dollars</em> to last the next <strong><em>three weeks</em></strong>, when <strong>sixty</strong> could barely last a <strong><em>week</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Double shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean forces a smile, even though a knot just tightened in his gut. “It’s alright, Sammy. I’ll think of <em>something.”</em></p><p>Sammy doesn’t look convinced; his eyes tear up and he starts to cry.</p><p>Despite his loopy-ness, Dean, is off his chair and around the table to Sammy in a <em>heartbeat</em>. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulls Sammy in for a <strong>tight</strong> hug.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry, D-De!” Sammy cries and sniffles.</p><p>Dean bites back tears of his own. Dean has never been able to withstand more than a few seconds of seeing Sammy in emotional peril—<em>no matter the circumstance.</em></p><p>“You don’t have <em>anything</em> to apologize for, Sammy. I was the irresponsible one that stayed in bed for a week. I shouldn’t have done that, Sammy,” Dean coos, smoothing Sammy’s hair.</p><p>It takes a good fifteen minutes to soothe Sammy’s tears, and by then they are <em>already</em> running late.</p><p>Dean eventually manages to convince Sammy that he’ll figure it all out and it’s not really <strong><em>that</em></strong> big of a deal—<em>even though it <strong>is</strong></em>—but he somehow gets Sammy to believe him.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have time to shower, but he heads into the bathroom and changes out of Dad’s shirt, and applies deodorant, hoping it will overpower the stench of dry sweat and <em>five-day </em>body odor.</p><p>
  <em>It’s all he <strong>can</strong> do.</em>
</p><p>Dad washed their dirty clothes before he left for the month, Sammy, had found them that next day, folded on the small table. Dean figured that Dad laundered them so Sammy wouldn’t see the piss stains from that night—<em>or maybe it was another apology</em>—Dean can’t much <em>tell</em>.</p><p>Dean walks Sammy to school, hand in hand, like usual and drops him off at his classroom, before heading to his own.</p><p>His current teacher, Mr. Driskel, is sympathetic to his sluggishness, and doesn’t even make a point of calling on him like he usually does.</p><p>It is a nice change for, Dean, because he is so used to his teachers <em>(no matter the school in question)</em> picking on him for lacking in knowledge, when it comes to any and all coursework.</p><p>Dean simply never has the time to study. He <strong><em>knows</em></strong> things—<em>most of the time</em>—but he has too much in his head<em> (regarding Sammy, Dad, and hunting) </em>to keep his schoolwork straight.</p><p>Regardless, Mr. Driskel, leaves him alone, today, and the day breezes by. Actually, the hardest part of his whole day happens to be lunch. He had packed a sandwich for Sammy, but didn’t want to waste any of their precious, <em>little,</em> food on himself.</p><p>So, his stomach inevitably grumbles all-throughout the morning, and come lunch it is absolute torture, sitting back and watching everyone else around him chowing down while he can’t.</p><p>The worst part, comes when he sits down at his usual table and the other kids in his class, scoot way because of his <em>‘repugnant odor,’</em> and <em>‘disgusting sickness cooties,’</em> as one of the smartass <em>‘cool kids’</em> puts it.</p><p>Dean is mortified, but he would never outwardly show it. Instead, he sucks it up <em>(like Dad taught him)</em> and shoots the kids a glare, telling them that he <em>‘Doesn’t want to sit with them anyway,’</em> even though he would give anything, in this second, to just blend in.</p><p>Dean feels like everyone is staring at him, which is probably the case, since he is positioned at one end of the table completely alone, instead of in-and-amongst the crowd like he should be.</p><p>Dean spends his lunch hour napping on the table, until the recess bell startles him awake.</p><p>Afterschool, he waits dutifully for Sammy outside, <em>(like always), </em>and fast-walks them both back to the motel.</p><p>Dean hops in the shower the second they arrive back, leaving Sammy standing at the table with a quizzical expression on his face.</p><p>Decidedly, right here and now, that he is <strong>never</strong> going to willfully skip a shower again—<em>even if it makes him late in the future. </em></p><p>Dean is so tired that he feels like he might, <em>just</em>, keel over, as he scrubs his skin raw with a loofa. He also realizes<em> (in his rush to shower) </em>that he didn’t turn the lock on the door, so, Sammy, waltzes right in <em>(like always)</em> and settles down on the toilet lid, with his homework poised in his lap.</p><p><em>“You</em> <strong><em>good</em></strong><em>,</em> Dean?” Sammy echoes over the loud drizzle of the shower stream.</p><p>Dean swallows back the tears that threaten to fall any second from the combination of his exhaustion and shitty school day. He wonders if it’s strictly possible for a person to just <em>crack in half</em> from stress—<em>because he thinks he just might</em>.</p><p>“I’m fine, Sam,” Dean mutters, keeping the shower curtain drawn so that Sammy can’t <em>see</em> his naked flesh. The last thing he needs right now is to have the conversation he’s been <strong><em>dreading</em></strong> all day.</p><p><em>The conversation about</em> <em>last week.</em></p><p>“Promise?” Sammy prompts and Dean flinches, grateful to be out of sight of Sammy’s prying <em>(curious)</em> eyes.</p><p>“Promise, Sammy,” Dean softens his tone and finishes rinsing the soap suds from his hair.</p><p>Seemingly appeased, Dean, hears Sammy scribbling away at his homework, which is just as well. That means, no more invasive, <em>prying</em> questions.</p><p>Dean turns around to allow the shower stream to loosen his muscles and soothe the skin of his ass, and it does. <em>Thankfully</em>.</p><p>It feels <strong>glorious</strong>.</p><p>After a few seconds of that, Dean, shuts off the water, wraps a towel around his waist, and climbs out.</p><p>Sammy glances up from his work and shoots him a genuine <em>‘Sammy’</em> smile, that has Dean’s heart pattering in seconds’ flat.</p><p>
  <em>Damn this kid and his ability to control his heart like that!</em>
</p><p>It’s <strong><em>totally</em></strong> unfair.</p><p>“Get out, Sammy, I need to <em>change,”</em> Dean says, goosebumps spreading up his arms with even the slightest chill in the air.</p><p>Sam doesn’t budge, in-fact he continues to smile at Dean with that <em>quirky</em> little pull to his lips and stays put.</p><p>“I want to <em>watch,”</em> Sam states, as though such a thing is the most <em>natural</em> thing in the world to say to your big brother.</p><p>
  <em>God damn it! Sammy is not fucking normal.</em>
</p><p>And Dean has no one to blame but <strong><em>himself</em></strong> for fucking this kid up, so bad.</p><p>Dean squeezes his eyes with his fingers and breathes through the <em>shock</em> of Sammy’s words.</p><p>“Why, Sammy? <em>Why</em> do you want to watch me change huh? And shower? And take a <em>shit?</em> Like … it’s not <strong>normal</strong>, Man,” he says, “And it ain’t <em>right,</em> neither.”</p><p>Sam appears thoughtful and taps his pencil on his homework, repetitively.</p><p>“Why <em>isn’t it</em> normal, Dean? I’ve <em>always</em> done it. So, doesn’t that make it, <strong><em>our</em></strong>, normal?”</p><p>
  <em>This fucking kid, Man! With his warped freaking logic!</em>
</p><p>“Just because you do something, <em>a lot</em>, doesn’t mean it’s right or <strong>normal</strong>, Sam,” Dean retorts, trying to ignore the second ripple of chill, that’s now coursing up his spine.</p><p>“It’s normal to <em>me,”</em> Sammy persists, as though that somehow makes it all, <em>A-okay.</em></p><p>“Sammy, we <em>talked</em> about this. I need my <strong>privacy</strong>, okay? Would <em>you</em> like it if I stood and watched <strong><em>you</em></strong> take a shit, Sammy?” Dean attempts to reason with him, knowing it’s probably moot, but <em>what the hell?</em></p><p>Sammy tilts his head to the side and stares some more. “You <strong><em>did</em></strong> used to do that, Dean.”</p><p>That stops him dead for a second.</p><p><em>“What?”</em> Dean asks, perplexed. “Sammy what are you talkin’ about?”</p><p>“When I was <em>little,</em> remember? You used to sit on the floor, in the bathroom, doing your homework while I went potty.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes widen and his jaw drops open. He hasn’t done that since Sammy was <strong>three</strong> <em>(maybe four?)</em> years old and would cry if someone wasn’t there with him when he went.</p><p>“You <em>remember</em> that?” Dean marvels at Sammy’s memory.</p><p>“Course I do, De. I figured it’s just what <em>we</em> do. Be there for each other, all the time. I remember saying I had to go, even when I didn’t just <em>because</em> you’d sit with me,” Sammy tells Dean with genuine enthusiasm in his tone.</p><p>Dean is speechless for several seconds. He can’t believe that Sammy can even <strong><em>remember</em></strong> anything from when he was <em>that</em> little, let alone that Dean used to potty train him while doing <em>homework</em>. Such a strange thing for Sam to recall.</p><p>“That was <strong>different</strong>, Sam. You were a toddler and I needed to make sure you knew what you had to do. I didn’t watch ya go because it’s what you <em>should</em> do. I just did it, because you needed help learning to use a <strong>toilet</strong> instead of your diapers.”</p><p>That seems to make sense to, Sam, because he nods his head in understanding and shrugs his shoulders.</p><p>“I still don’t see <em>why</em> it bothers you so much that I like to watch you. You see <em>me</em> naked all the time, De.”</p><p>Dean sighs, “You’ll understand when you’re <em>older, </em>Sam. You’re not gonna want me watchin’ when you change in a few years, neither.”</p><p>Sam reluctantly gets up and hugs his homework to his chest. “I’ll <strong><em>always</em></strong> want you to watch me, De. I like how it feels when your <em>eyes</em> are on me.”</p><p>Dean’s stomach quivers and he stares dumbfounded, as Sammy approaches the door and walks right out of it, clicking it shut, and leaving Dean with the beginnings of a hard-on under his towel.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>vii. wrenches apart &amp; cuts unmendable.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just as Dean <em>predicted</em> they are out of food in two days and the entire forty-dollars is spent within a week-and-a-half.</p><p>And <em>(despite Dean eating barely enough to keep functioning)</em> he’s out of food and <em>options</em> in two weeks, still with <em>one week</em> to go.</p><p>When he tucks Sammy into bed at eight, Dean, waits until Sammy’s wrapped-up tight like a monkey, around him, before he detangles himself, slides out of bed, and gets changed into a flannel, button-down shirt and jeans.</p><p>Dean hasn’t left Sammy alone <em>(at night)</em> since last year when a <em>‘Shtriga,’</em> almost killed Sammy. If it weren’t for Dad’s unexpected <em>(early)</em> return, Sam, would be <strong><em>dead</em></strong> right now.</p><p>That was one of the many times Dad belted him, but the <em>only</em> time he belted him, for putting Sammy’s life in danger.</p><p>Dean is well aware that that incident, alone, is another of Dad’s reasons for being unable to look him in the eye.</p><p>It isn’t <em>only</em> because of Dean’s appearance. But, Dad, never talks about Dean’s fuck-up that night.</p><p>
  <em>Not ever.</em>
</p><p>Dean checks the locks on the window, three times, and checks the salt lines at the door and windowsill in triplicate, too. He leaves the loaded guns at the door, in case he needs one in a hurry, then checks it all again for a fourth and final time, before he finally heads out.</p><p>Making, damn sure, to <em>lock</em> the door behind him, and even scopes out the parking lot and building before he’s secure in the mindset that <em>nothing</em> is gonna try and get Sammy, this time, while he’s out.</p><p>He isn’t old enough to play pool in the pub across the street, <em>(even though he could hustle anybody as good as Dad),</em> which leaves precious few options, for a kid.</p><p>Dean made the decision earlier in the night, that he’s going to have to swallow his pride—<em>and beg.</em></p><p>Crossing the street, Dean, walks up to various adults standing in the <em>‘smoking place’</em> just to the side of the bar, and asks for money.</p><p>Two of them scoff and walk away, but a third—<em>a bearded man perhaps Dad’s age</em>—stays, and shoots him an innocuous smile.</p><p>“What you doin’ out here, Kid?” he asks, pulling the cigarette from between his lips, to blow his smoke off to one side.</p><p>“I just need some money. I ran out, see, and I’m <em>hungry,”</em> Dean’s perfected his own version of a <em>‘kicked puppy pout’</em> and sometimes it wins him favor with adults, sometimes it gets him shooed away.</p><p>Depends on the <em>crowd</em> and the <strong><em>night</em></strong>.</p><p>This man, seems almost <em>amused</em> by it.</p><p>“What you willin’ to <em>do</em> for it, huh?” the man asks him, with <em>casual</em> insinuation.</p><p>Dean glances around and realizes they are completely alone. He knows how to handle himself <em>(he’s sparred with Dad a few times)</em> but he’s also not too sure, at the same time.</p><p>This man is built like a <em>truck</em> and could probably bench Dean’s entire 90-pound frame without missing a beat.</p><p><em>“Do</em> for it? Like <em>what?”</em> Dean ‘s never been asked something like that before, not without a clear idea of what he should say. Usually, he’d offer to play a game of pool, but its too late for him to go inside the pub and get <strong><em>away</em></strong> with it—<em>much too late.</em></p><p>The man quirks a brow. “Don’t tell me a boy <em>‘looker’</em> like you’s never turnt’ no tricks before,” the man laughs.</p><p>Dean has heard the phrase <em>‘turning tricks’</em> out of Dad’s mouth a time or two, but he’s none-the-wiser to what it <em>actually</em> means. Dad has never been one to explain much of anything, either.</p><p>Not wanting to look like an <em>idiot,</em> Dean says, “Course I have!” with a red-faced, glance.</p><p>“And? You willin’ to <strong><em>earn</em></strong> that money, tonight, Boy?” the man goads.</p><p>Dean decides that whatever this <em>‘turning tricks’</em> means, he’ll go along with it—<em>for Sammy.</em></p><p>He’s so desperate that he’s willing to do <strong>anything</strong> so that Sammy doesn’t starve. Because as it stands, right now, Sammy, won’t have anything to eat tomorrow—<em>and that’s not going to happen.</em></p><p>Not while <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> is around.</p><p>“Willing and able,” Dean responds without hesitation.</p><p>The man laughs and its almost this sinister sound, lacking enthusiasm. He then throws down his cigarette and stomps it out with his muddy Convoy boot.</p><p>
  <em>“C’mon then.”</em>
</p><p>Dean follows behind the man, through the dim-lit parking lot, until they are at his vehicle. A dark-colored, tricked-out van. Dean does hesitate then, because he knows better than to get inside a stranger’s car <em>(especially a van for Chrissake! Hell, he’s not even been offered a freaking candy bar for it!) </em>but Dad’s trained him in getting out of cuffs and ropes, so, if worst comes to worst, he can fight his way back out—<em>he hopes.</em></p><p>The man opens the back and hops in, and Dean climbs in after him, kneeling on the shag carpet in the back <em>(that looks like something out of the seventies)</em> Dean ignores the stench of weed and vodka that takes up the inside.</p><p>“You want a joint? Or something to take the <strong><em>edge</em></strong> off? I’m Jake, by the way,” Jake says, finally putting a name to his weathered face.</p><p>Dean knows better than to drink anything from a <em>stranger</em>—<em>so he politely declines.</em> “No, thank you. I’m <em>Dean,”</em> he offers, figuring it doesn’t matter if the man knows his <em>real</em> first name.</p><p>Jake hoists a bottle from under the passenger seat in the rear and unscrews the cap, taking a swig.</p><p><em>“You <strong>sure</strong>?”</em> he holds it out to, Dean, but Dean shakes his head, no, for a second time.</p><p>Dean wonders how long this is going to take, because every second he’s away from Sammy is another second that something could go <em>horribly</em> wrong. Anxiety swirls in Dean’s stomach and he fidgets with his hands, twisting them in his lap.</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Jake mutters and begins unlatching his belt buckle in the next second.</p><p>Dean watches with sudden realization <em>(and horror)</em> of exactly what he’s just blindly agreed to. The mounting pit in his stomach gives him quite the understanding of <em>precisely</em> what he’s dealing with.</p><p>Trying to keep his cool, Dean, forces himself to swallow and think this through. Can he really go through with <em>‘Turning Tricks,’ </em>for Sammy’s benefit?</p><p>The answer to that question exists before his mind even asks it of him.</p><p>Of course—<em>it’s Sammy.</em></p><p>
  <em>Idealistic, Sweet, <strong>Gentle</strong>, Sammy.</em>
</p><p>And Dean … well … Dean damned himself the second he was born into this godforsaken world, bearing Mom <em>(and Dad’s)</em> good-looks, while also tempting Dad at every corner, without so-much-as meaning to.</p><p>This, <em>here-now</em>, is no less than scum like <strong><em>him</em></strong> deserves. Despite the humiliation that is spreading to his cheeks, right now.</p><p>Dean knows about <em>‘Queers,’</em> he’s heard Dad talk a bit about them.</p><p>Dean doesn’t like to think about that word, though, because in a roundabout way, it’s what <em>Sammy</em> might turn out to be, if he doesn’t stop touching him. And Dad … Dean doesn’t think Dad is queer, <em>perse</em>, but he harbors this attraction toward Dean and it’s not fatherly, as it should be.</p><p>Blinking a few times, Dean, wonders just how he is going to be able to <em>fake</em> his way through this.</p><p>All he knows about sex is what Dad did to him while he was in a hazy-fog and what he <em>(in-turn)</em> did to Sammy, after.</p><p><strong>Touch</strong> of a sensual nature—<em>of a comforting one.</em></p><p>“Well, get <strong>over</strong> here, Boy. I ain’t gonna pay ya to <em>stare</em> at it,” Jake prompts.</p><p>Dean <em>(flushed in the face and red at the ears)</em> has to persuade his legs to move and he crawls across the shag carpet, until he’s close enough to smell the weed, cigarettes, and alcohol that coats this man’s natural musk.</p><p>Though Dean has washed Sammy a great deal of times, he’s rarely <strong>ever</strong> taken a gander at Dad’s fully-formed manhood<em>, (not since he was little and Dad would change in front of him or piss in front of him)</em> and even then, Dean, has never bore witness to an erect, bulbous-tipped cock, either.</p><p>It doesn’t even fit in this man’s fist and Dean doesn’t think one of his hands will even completely coil around it, neither.</p><p><strong><em>Shit</em></strong><em>.</em> <em>What is he supposed to do?</em></p><p>“Well, <em>Dean?</em> You gonna put yer mouth on and suck, or do I have to <strong><em>make</em></strong> you?”</p><p>Dean swallows again and tries not to show how shocked he is by Jake’s sudden <em>vulgarity</em>. His darkish eyes have suddenly turned feral in a second-flat, and were Dean <strong>more</strong> experienced he might have understood that this stranger was displaying a man’s lust, which can make for unpredictable ramifications.</p><p>Dean does recognize the harsh, steely look as the same one, Dad, had <strong><em>that</em></strong> night, and various others when he’s drunk plenty more than a <strong><em>fair</em></strong> amount.</p><p>Not wanting to tick Jake off, Dean, lowers his head of his own volition and takes the plunge.</p><p>Dean can’t fit the man in his mouth. His jaw widens to full-berth, and can’t widen any further. The tip slides in and grazes his tongue and Dean has to struggle not to gag on the musky, sweaty taste.</p><p>It’s strange and different—and Dean keeps telling himself that <em>this</em> is for Sammy. This whole blasted <strong><em>thing</em></strong> is for Sammy, in order to persuade his own head and mouth to stay put.</p><p>A torturous-sounding grunt comes from the man’s parted lips and Dean has to close his eyes and learn as he goes. Dean recalls his own little hitches and sounds <em>(and Sammy’s—no he can’t think about Sammy right fucking now.</em> <strong><em>He won’t</em></strong><em>.)</em> when Dad touched him, to convince himself that the noises <em>are</em> a good thing.</p><p>All of the sudden, Jake, starts to get a little rougher with him—<strong><em>handsy</em></strong>.</p><p>It’s nothing at first. Just a jab of Jake’s hips that sees Dean nearly gag and his jaw ache from the stretch, then a hand in his hair to force his head to bob more successfully up and down, and finally Jake pulls Dean’s head completely off his junk in order to force a painful kiss to his pink, swollen lips.</p><p>Dean is caught off-guard by Jake’s kiss and he stumbles, landing on his back, unintentionally guiding Jake’s hulking frame overtop of Dean’s own.</p><p>Dwarfed under Jake’s shape, Dean, struggles not to delve, <em>mindfully</em> into a full-on <strong>panic</strong>.</p><p>Dean has never even kissed a <em>girl,</em> before. He’s only ever kissed Sam and Dad, and suddenly this man is all <strong><em>over</em></strong> him. Squeezing and groping his flesh through his suddenly <em>too-tight</em> clothes, and worst of all, Jake’s touch has him sporting a full-fledged erection of his own in a matter of <em>seconds</em>.</p><p>Even though, Dean, isn’t <em>actually</em> aroused right now, his nervous skin is doing all of the reacting for him. And it’s the first time that the <strong>magnitude</strong> of what is happening to him, starts to kick in.</p><p>Jake wants <strong><em>more</em></strong> than just a cock-suck.</p><p>That was just the <em>main course …</em></p><p>Dean wants to be sick, <em>desperately</em>, but his skin is crawling and he’s suddenly <strong><em>defenseless</em></strong>. His limbs don’t want to work and his voice is meek when he finally breaks Jake’s kiss long enough to speak.</p><p>“W-What are you <em>doing?</em>” Dean asks him, needing clarification—wanting to understand <strong>where</strong> this will lead.</p><p>“Shh,” Jake hisses with a nefarious smile that’s all yellow-stained teeth and scratchy stubble. “I’ll pay ya good, Dean-Boy. Don’t you be worrin’ your <em>pretty</em> little head, bout that.”</p><p>It doesn’t answer Dean’s question and it only serves to makes him want to <strong>wretch</strong> all the more.</p><p>Jake reaches down a rough hand and grips Dean’s crotch through his jeans. Eagerly, Jake, palms the poke of him underneath the denim and his cotton boxers.</p><p>“You’re gettin’ <em>off</em> on this, ain’t ya, Boy? You a <em>fairy,</em> Boy? Huh?” Those words cut right through the cage of Dean’s chest and attack the chambers of his heart.</p><p>There is so much shame and guilt bottled up in him, because Dad says it’s wrong to be <em>that</em>—<strong><em>Queer</em></strong>—<strong><em>A Fairy</em></strong>---whatever the term the connotations remain the same, and it has Dean wishing to die.</p><p>He wants to be normal—<em>not queer</em>—<em>not damaged</em>—just an ordinary, <em>straight,</em> boy.</p><p>“I-I’m not,” Dean squirms under the touch and to his eternal shame, even juts up into it a little.</p><p>Tears well in his ducts and he tries not to let them shed. He <strong>won’t</strong> cry—<em>not over some asshole in a van</em>—and he manages to hold back—<em>that is before what comes next.</em></p><p>Jake turns him onto his stomach with a rough, flip, that knocks the <em>wind</em> out of Dean. And before he can recover his wits, Jake, has already worked down both his jeans and boxers, enough to display his tight, <em>virginal</em> ass.</p><p>Dean doesn’t understand what’s happening, explicitly—<em>not at first.</em> Not even when Jake comments on the <em>‘forever-scars’ </em>Dad belted into his ass and upper-thighs.</p><p>“You like it <strong>rough</strong>, don’t ya, Dean? Is that what makes ya <em>hot,</em> Boy? Hm? When men are <strong><em>rough</em></strong> on ya?”</p><p>Dean instantly experiences <strong>intense</strong> mortification at Jake’s hands. The words he says <em>(though not making complete sense to Dean)</em> are enough to send the worst kind of guilt and shame straight through <strong>every</strong> fiber of his being.</p><p>What <strong>Dad</strong> did was bad enough … but to have this stranger thinking he <strong><em>liked</em></strong> it? That’s somehow <em>multiple</em> times worse.</p><p><em>“N-No!”</em> Dean gruffly manages to answer, staining to hoist himself up to balance on his hands, which fails when Jake pushes down on his spine, effectively pinning him with pure <em>might</em>.</p><p>“I’ll give ya <em>rough,</em> Boy,” Dean identifies the sound of Jake spitting, which is immediately followed by the coarse texture of Jake’s hand, down between his ass-cheeks.</p><p>Dean goes rigidly tense, when a thick finger plunges <em>deep</em> inside of him. It’s uncomfortable and strange—<em>indescribably so</em>—and it has Dean in a panic, as he tries to <strong>scramble</strong> away but finds his muscles are tired and weak from two weeks of damn near starving himself for Sam.</p><p>He’s <em>malnourished</em> and just fucking <strong><em>tired</em></strong>.</p><p><em>So damned tired</em>—and its in the second that Jake pulls his finger free with a <em>‘pop’</em> and positions the bulk of his <em>‘too-wide and way-too-thick’</em> cock at Dean’s rear passage entrance—<em>that it all <strong>suddenly</strong> clicks into place.</em></p><p>“No! Don’t! Please—<strong><em>FUCK</em></strong><em>!” </em>Dean’s sharp pleas turn to high-pitched shrieks in a second-flat, when Jake plunges his <em>entire</em> length inside of him without warning.</p><p>
  <em>God, it fucking hurts!</em>
</p><p>Dean swears that his ass literally, <em>tears, </em>under the strain of taking this monster into him. Here and <strong>now</strong>, Jake, <em>becomes</em> a monster to Dean.</p><p>No better than the things Dad hunts, but also the only way Dean <em>has</em> to make money <em>… ‘Turning tricks …’</em> and were it not for Sammy, Dean, <strong>might</strong> have fought harder. He might have tried to <em>kill</em> this bastard … but Sammy <strong>needs</strong> him to do this.</p><p>Even if it <em>destroys</em> him—<em>fucks-up and wrecks his body for</em> <strong><em>life</em></strong>—it’s what Sammy <strong><em>needs</em></strong>.</p><p>Dad always tells him to take <em>care</em> of Sammy—look after Sammy—and it is Dean’s fault all the money got spent, before Dad came back.</p><p>
  <em>Just <strong>his</strong>.</em>
</p><p>Dean suddenly understands the shame that lives in Dad—<em>why that shame lives there and <strong>aches</strong> there</em>—because <em>this</em> is destruction.</p><p><em>Pure decimation. </em>And it is clearly what Dad was talking about <em>needing</em>, before.</p><p>Dean understands <em>that</em> now.</p><p>It’s brutal and its infinite and this is the moment that Dean grows up—<em>the rest of the way.</em></p><p>The last cling of innocence has been vanquished from his bones. And he prays to a <strong>merciful</strong> God, <em>(the instant the thought forms)</em> that Sammy will <em>never</em> know what it is to have his innocence <strong><em>vanquished</em></strong> away.</p><p>It’s like tatters and vibrations and pure fucking <em>agony</em>.</p><p>That’s what this feels like. It’s the best way he can describe it to himself.</p><p>It feels like the <strong><em>ultimate</em></strong> death.</p><p>Like God <em>(if such a being ever exists at all)</em> has abandoned him and left him for the <strong>wolves</strong> to pick apart flesh.</p><p>Before this, Dean, had just started to feel the tiniest bit normal, again. Like his body wasn’t a walking disease—<em>or bruise</em>—but able to sit down properly on a chair and wrestle-spar with Sammy in training and just—<em>function right.</em></p><p>Now, that normality has been swiftly wrenched and torn back away.</p><p>Dean isn’t in <em>control</em> of his tears, of his sobs, of his limbs.</p><p>He fights and squirms, not <em>consciously</em>, more <strong><em>impulsively</em></strong>.</p><p>Jake only seems to become more aroused by the tear of his skin and the <em>sound</em> of his cries. Dean is mortified to have a man, thick and hard between his thighs, using him <strong>this</strong> way.</p><p>It’s worse than if Jake would just <em>kill</em> him.</p><p>Death would have been <em>merciful.</em></p><p>Dean blacks out for some of it, his mind caves in on itself and scrambles to identify what, <em>exactly,</em> is being done. Jake spanks him with a raw slap and Dean barely even feels it, because the pain all the way up his rectum is so great—<em>it’s ungodly</em>—and Dean can’t react.</p><p>He can’t, <em>fucking,</em> function.</p><p>Dad would be ashamed of him, right now.</p><p>Taking it up the ass—letting a self-proclaimed <em>‘Queer’</em> lay hands on him, because he’s <em>strapped</em> for cash.</p><p>Dean’s mind focuses on the threads of the shag carpet, and he squeezes his hands into balled-up fists. Clenching into the strange texture with <strong><em>hard</em></strong> tugs.</p><p>Jake ruts and shoves into him—<em>hard enough to leave bruises from sheer force alone.</em></p><p>Another lapse of black, death-like <em>sensation</em> encroaches on Dean’s heart, mind, vision.</p><p>Finally, he succumbs and breaks to smithereens and he cries and pleads for it to just stop.</p><p>Dean is aware that he’s blubbering, but he’s not even cognizant of what he’s saying. Possibly, <em>‘Please, Please, Jake, Please …’</em> or some <em>semblance</em> thereof.</p><p>Either way, it’s what transpires.</p><p>Dean writhes and succumbs, because he can’t do anything else. He misjudged his own muscles—<em>his own strength</em>—against a man, built <em>larger</em> than Dad.</p><p>Larger, even, than a monster truck it <strong>feels</strong> like. Especially, between his excruciatingly, <em>powerful</em> thighs.</p><p>When Jake stills on top of him, there is a final plunge that makes Dean believe he will literally be split in <em>half</em> from it. But remarkably, he doesn’t split in half. And he doesn’t stop <em>breathing</em>, either.</p><p>He just <strong><em>is</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Dean just <strong>exists</strong>.</em>
</p><p>Dean breathes in and exhales. That’s the first thing he’s even <em>remotely</em> aware of.</p><p>Then, Dean, feels sick, sloshy heat burning his insides. And he realizes it’s Jake’s cum, oozing into his ass, straight up his passage to stay <strong><em>in</em></strong> him. To, <em>fucking</em>, <em>mark</em> him like <strong>territory</strong>.</p><p>Things are hazy and Dean doesn’t know if his legs will even function for him, again. He wonders if his <em>back</em> is broken from the strain of fighting and wrenching under this man.</p><p>It feels that way, but Dean figures it’s not, because his toes move. He can <em>feel</em> them in his shoes.</p><p>That’s <em>something</em>, at least.</p><p>When, Dean, doesn’t get up, Jake, starts to get <em>angry</em> with him. His words all blend together, but he calls him a <em>‘Bitch,’</em> and kicks him out the van onto the hard asphalt.</p><p>Dean makes a <em>startled</em> sound, but still can’t bring himself to move.</p><p>
  <em>He’s in shock.</em>
</p><p>His pants are still around his upper-thighs and—<em>he’s in shock!</em></p><p>Dean manages—<em>somehow</em>—to look up at the red-faced, Jake, who is hovering in the van doors, staring down at him, while shuffling in his wallet.</p><p>“Learn to do <em>better</em>, Boy. You’re a <strong>looker</strong>, but not a very <em>talented</em> fuck. Ain’t even worth the <em>cash.”</em></p><p>From what Dean can gather Jake’s <em>disappointed</em> with him. What else did Jake <em>want?</em> He already took <strong>all</strong> that Dean had to give—and <em>more,</em> even.</p><p>Dean’s gut clenches from the roiling shame and guilt that’s <em>largely</em> consuming him.</p><p>Jake launches three twenties down at him and Dean stares at it, through <em>blurred</em> vision and lingering tears.</p><p>Time, <strong><em>lapses</em></strong>, for Dean and eventually, Jake, drives away and leaves him there, leaking cum and barely conscious on the frigid-cold asphalt.</p><p>Dean pockets the <em>tainted</em> money, while managing to pull up his pants, resituating them over his <em>tender</em> <em>ass.</em> It’s blinding, searing ache—<em>excruciation</em>—to do so, but Dean feels gross.</p><p>
  <em>Naked.</em>
</p><p>And he never wants <strong>anyone</strong> to see him vulnerable and bare again.</p><p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p><p>Right now, he wants <strong>Dad</strong> to comfort him. Like he did <em>that</em> night …</p><p>He wants <em>Sammy</em> even. He wants Sammy to cling to him like a <strong><em>monkey</em></strong> and make him feel love and safety. Though, at the same time, Dean, <strong><em>never</em></strong> wants to be touched again.</p><p>It’s all conflicted, mismatched, and <em>contradictive </em>haze.</p><p>Nothing <strong><em>connects</em></strong> any longer.</p><p>Dean’s mind feels <em>damaged</em>—<strong>broken</strong>—<strong><em>shifted</em></strong>.</p><p>Like he’s piecing his thoughts together against a wall, and is failing, miserably to do it, properly. Dean is trying to iron them out and maneuver them into position—<em>but it’s so damned impossible.</em></p><p>Dean lays here, on the asphalt for an indeterminate amount of time. Not, because he necessarily <em>wants</em> to—<em>solely because he can’t move.</em></p><p>It hurts to breathe and his ass, itself, has never ached this much before—<em>not internally, anyway.</em></p><p>When his legs decide they want to function, again, Dean, struggles to stand up to his feet. With wobbly knees and vexed skin, Dean, sniffles, whisking away any remaining, hot tears from his cheeks.</p><p>Shamed and humiliated, Dean, walks the length of the parking lot, his broken body creaking and aching the whole way, back to the sanctuary of the motel room.</p><p>Dean surveys the cash, fishing it out of his pocket and stares at it—<em>blankly.</em></p><p>The twenties feel tainted and gross in his hand and suddenly—<em>he wants (<strong>needs</strong>) them gone</em>.</p><p>This is all his innocence was worth to that <em>‘Jake’</em> man? <em>Sixty bucks.</em></p><p>Dean let a man <em>brutalize</em> him for sixty <strong>whole</strong> dollars.</p><p>It makes him feel <strong>cheap</strong> and <em>worthless</em>. Like some throwaway pile of trash on the side of the road. The pit in his stomach is so deep, Dean, doesn’t know if it will <strong><em>ever</em></strong> go away.</p><p>With a somber glance at, Sammy, fast asleep, snoring away on their bed, Dean, turns gingerly back around and exits the room, clicking the lock.</p><p>It takes twice the time it normally would to make it to, Walmart, just down the street, but the longer Dean moves—the easier his sore muscles are to navigate.</p><p>Dean can’t help but wince every now and again, but he manages to shop for food. Buying enough to last two weeks <em>(just in case Dad isn’t home when he said he would be)</em> and waddles back down the street with all the groceries clutched in tight fists, a lifeless expression on his face.</p><p>Dean still can’t seem to process what was just done to him.</p><p>His hands shake with tremors, while his skin crawls with insipid creeps, everywhere imaginable.</p><p>Dean can’t imagine that this disgusting, filthy sensation will ever actually leave him, and that scares him most of all.</p><p>As he puts the groceries away, Dean’s mind, replays what happened, over and over, again.</p><p>Worse and worse as the seconds tick by.</p><p>Dean completes the task and heads into the bathroom, clicking the lock on the door for privacy. Dean then proceeds to shed his flannel shirt and works down his jeans and boxers with careful maneuvers. Hissing as the dried semen that leaked out of him, detaches from his skin along with his boxer-material.</p><p>Dean can’t <em>(though he tries)</em> forgo a few trembly, cracked cries from his lips, from the raw, burning sensation on his skin.</p><p>Through desperate tears, Dean, climbs into the shower and begins the tedious task of scrubbing the surface of his skin, harder than he ever has before. Dean’s heart feels broken—<em>cracked</em>—and he can’t decipher the <strong><em>why</em></strong> in his head—<em>why he feels like this.</em></p><p>In a moment of reflection, Dean, comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t <em>want</em> to feel anything at all. <em>Ever, again.</em></p><p>Even though he knows in his heart that that is impossible. That he’s going to feel what that <em>Jake</em> did to him, for the remainder of his life.</p><p>Dean can still <em>smell</em> the residual weed and booze—he can still hear the residual grunts and moans from Jake’s lips, and he can still feel all that residual helplessness in his gut—helplessness to prevent what was coming.</p><p>Panic seizes Dean’s chest and he begins to hyperventilate under the shower stream.</p><p>The images won’t leave his head and all he can manage is to hunker down on the heat-warmed porcelain tub, and sob into his knees until the stream starts to lose its heat, altogether.</p><p>Dean loses time in this panicky state and when he reemerges, there is pain shooting straight up inside his ass, from the awkward position he’s hunkered down in—and there’s the sound of birds outside the window, signifying that the sun will rise soon.</p><p>Somewhere in his mind, Dean, registers that he’s really cold.</p><p>Cranking off the freezing water, Dean, steps from the tub and glimpses his reflection in the mirror. Taking in the curve of his bones and the red state of his skin. Most of all, he sees the hint of blue in his irises and the shape of his jaw and face.</p><p>Jake called him a <em>‘Looker,’</em> and <em>‘Pretty’</em> like he’s some kind of female … and Dean feels this twinge in his shoulders that flames up into his cheeks.</p><p>Why was he <em>cursed</em> this way?</p><p>Why did he have to be a <em>‘Looker,’</em> to men especially?</p><p>
  <em>Why <strong>him</strong>?</em>
</p><p>There are dark circles underneath Dean’s eyes—almost shadowy marks that make him resemble a racoon, and Dean wonders if he’ll ever <em>want</em> to sleep again.</p><p>Safety doesn’t feel <strong>real</strong> to, Dean, now. It’s like some sort of illusion, or something.</p><p>And for a second, he thinks about getting out his Colt, putting it to his temple, and pulling the trigger.</p><p>But something stops him from following through.</p><p>
  <em>Sammy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always, Sammy.</em>
</p><p>This isn’t the first time he’s thought about doing it, but this is the first time he’s wanted to do it <strong><em>this</em></strong> badly.</p><p>Toweling off, Dean, heads out into the room. Shoving his filthy clothes to the bottom of the laundry bag he changes into Dad’s black <em>‘Zeppelin,’</em> t-shirt. He last did laundry a couple days ago and had washed the smelly shirt then. It smells clean now, like soap and dryer sheets.</p><p>Dean is, once again, too, sore for undergarments and, too, drained to go to school.</p><p>He opens the nightstand drawer, fishes out Dad’s pills, and swallows one, dry.</p><p>Dean remembers his internal promise to never take one again—but that’s shot to fuck now. He <strong><em>needs</em></strong> one.</p><p>For this extensive, unending, mortifying pain.</p><p>Dean crawls under the covers of Dad’s motel bed and cries into the pillow, deciding that he doesn’t want to be touched and clung to by Sammy. He’s afraid of what he’ll <em>feel</em> when Sammy’s hands do touch him.</p><p><em>Will it <strong>hurt</strong>?</em> <em>Will he feel <strong>unsafe</strong>?</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t fucking know—and he doesn’t <em>wanna</em> know. But right know he feels really gross and untouchable, so there’s <strong><em>that</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean expects to fall asleep, because he desperately needs it—and after a while of laying there waiting for the pills to kick in, the panic finally does die down a bit.</p><p>What he doesn’t expect—<em>is the phone to ring.</em></p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Once.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Then it goes silent.</em>
</p><p>It rings <strong>again</strong> and Dean picks it up. He knows without thinking about it, that, that’s how Dad calls.</p><p>Dad always dials once, hangs up, then dials right back.</p><p><em>“D-Dad?” </em>Dean’s voice cracks and his mind fights through fog and shock.</p><p>Dean was hoping that Dad wouldn’t check in for a few more days, at least. He had hoped <em>(futilely)</em> that he would have some time to heal a bit before speaking to Dad so that he’d never know how much Dean lost, <em>tonight.</em></p><p>
  <em>How low Dean sank.</em>
</p><p><em>“Dean,”</em> Dad’s voice sounds tired and a bit off. Dad hasn’t called once since he left that note, three weeks back. “What’s <strong>wrong</strong>?”</p><p>Dean has never <strong>successfully</strong> kept anything from Dad, at least, not in the direct aftermath of whatever it is that happens.</p><p>“Nothing, S-Sir,” Dean unsuccessfully tries to lie his way through this, because what can he say? How can he tell Dad that he fucked up?</p><p>He could have gotten himself killed and worse, he could have gotten <em>Sammy</em> killed by leaving him alone. But what other choice did he have? Letting Sammy starve?</p><p>There was no choice at all.</p><p>Dad is silent for a beat. The silence unnerves Dean and makes him squirm on Dad’s motel mattress.</p><p><em>“The</em> <em>truth</em>, Dean, <strong>now</strong>,” Dad’s voice becomes this curbed, scary grunt, and its more than Dean’s currently fragile <em>(narrowly re-pieced together)</em> psyche can handle.</p><p>Dean breaks into tears. Not normal, <em>‘I’ve-done-wrong’</em> tears. No. More like, broken, <em>‘On-the-verge-of-a-full-fledged-breakdown,’</em> tears.</p><p>Dean’s strength only holds up for so long at the best of times. He isn’t a perfect machine and he’s <em>not</em> full-grown. What he is, <em>is tired</em>—<em>just, fucking,</em> <strong><em>tired</em></strong>.</p><p>And his whole life is a <strong>shitshow</strong>.</p><p>It’s always going to be a shitshow and he can’t hide the pain anymore. He’s tried and tried and it hurts.</p><p>Dean wants to be normal, just for <em>once</em>. And he wants a dad that loves him right—<em>just for a little while.</em> But it doesn’t happen. Nothing ever happens the way it is <strong>supposed</strong> to.</p><p><em>“Shit,”</em> Dad’s voice changes from rough to concerned on a dime. “I’m coming back, Dean. I’ll be there soon.”</p><p>The line goes dead, but Dean is left still clutching the phone to his ear. Sobbing and crying into the mouthpiece, in a total meltdown. The strength he <em>thought</em> he had, just doesn’t exist, and the love he feels for Sammy is <em>all</em> that’s keeping him <em>alive and here.</em></p><p>Dad is going to <strong>beat</strong> him. He’s going to beat him <em>raw and bloody,</em> and this time—Dean is going to <strong>die</strong>.</p><p>It’s <strong><em>all</em></strong> he can think about when he thinks about Dad having to drop everything and come <strong>back</strong>, because of his weakness.</p><p>Because Dean couldn’t <strong><em>lie</em></strong> good enough.</p><p>Forget, <em>belting</em>, Dad, will probably just <strong>shoot</strong> him. He’s as good as dead, <em>anyway</em>, after what he allowed that repulsive man to do to him.</p><p>Dean shuts his eyes and falls asleep, still clutching the phone receiver to his ear, listening to the lull of the dial tone on the other end.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>viii. crossfades &amp; oversteps.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“De, aren’t you going to school?” Sammy shakes him awake a few hours later, and Dean has to squint through his blurry vision in order to make out the solid figure of, Sam, hovering over him.</p><p>“Let me <em>alone,</em> Sammy,” Dean mumbles and jerks back away from Sam’s light touch to his shoulder.</p><p>Just as Dean feared—<strong>touch</strong> <em>(even Sammy’s) </em>makes his skin recoil and gut <em>turn</em>.</p><p>Sam <em>(startled by his abrupt recoil)</em> lowers his hand and gives Dean a quizzical stare.</p><p>“Where did all the <em>food</em> come from? And why are you <strong><em>sleeping</em></strong> over here, De?”</p><p>Dean rubs his eyes and discovers he has no patience for Sam and his questions, today.</p><p>And Dean <strong>snaps</strong>, without really meaning to, “God Damn! Can’t I have a little peace and quiet once in a while, Sam?! Can’t you just leave me alone? <em>For once?</em> And not ask me a million fucking questions? Jeez!”</p><p>Sam looks down at him with wide, <em>confused</em> eyes that have tears swimming in them, and bites his lower lip, backing away.</p><p>“I-I’m sorry, D-De. T-Thanks for picking up <em>g-groceries …”</em> Sammy whispers and scampers away.</p><p>Dean feels like complete <em>shit</em> for snapping at Sam. It’s a mixture of his nerves and the pain medicine clouding up his mind and judgement.</p><p>Not to mention his fear of Dad and what <em>he’ll</em> do, whenever he gets here.</p><p>It’s been a little under <em>two hours </em>since Dad hung up the phone, according to the bedside clock.</p><p>Dean doesn’t try to talk to, Sammy, again, despite how shitty he feels. Dean just tucks back under the covers and stares there until the sound of the door closing, signals that Sammy headed off to school.</p><p>Always such a <strong>diligent</strong> student—<em>always so good</em>—Dean thinks to himself, just before he falls back under the sweet pull of dreamless, drugged-up sleep.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next hand that shakes him awake belongs to none other than Dad.</p><p>The overwhelming scent of booze and cigarettes cling to Dad’s clothes and for a moment, Dean, thinks it might be <strong><em>Jake</em></strong>—<em>back for seconds</em>—and he startles, shifting back a few inches from the hand that grazes his shoulder.</p><p>“It’s okay, you’re alright, Dean. It’s just <em>me,”</em> Dad soothes, with bloodshot eyes that harbor distinct concern, which is very unlike Dad.</p><p>Dean has only ever seen this level of concern from, Dad, <strong><em>that</em></strong> night.</p><p><em>“D-Dad,”</em> Deans voice cracks, same as it did over the phone, and his eyes well with tears that he can’t seem to scale back.</p><p>His emotions are all over the place and he wants to hug, Dad, but he doesn’t want to suffer rejection, like before. Dean doesn’t want to give Dad a reason to book it, again.</p><p>Dean wants him near—<em>wants him to care.</em></p><p>The concern only mounts in Dad’s eyes and he settles on the bed, alongside Dean, eyeing the bottle of pills, with a frown.</p><p>“Have you been <em>abusing</em> these pills, Boy?” Dad asks, holding up the bottle for emphasis.</p><p>Panic settles in Dean’s chest, as he comes to the realization that Dad could confiscate them for good. And, right now, they’re the only thing stemming the intensely traumatic pain he’d otherwise be experiencing.</p><p>“N-No, Sir,” Dean answers, tearfully eying the bottle, miserably.</p><p>“I think I’d better <em>take</em> them, then,” Dad says.</p><p>It’s a <em>test</em>—Dean knows it is, but the sheer panic that courses through his veins is too intense to inwardly ignore.</p><p><em>“No!”</em> Dean reaches for them, but Dad holds the bottle up and well out of reach for Dean and his much shorter arms. A sharp, brutal pain chooses <em>this</em> moment to make itself known and Dean’s plea, turns to a cut-off cry.</p><p>Dean stills and crumples back to the mattress in agony, waiting for the razor-sharp pain to pass.</p><p>Dad’s face immediately rearranges again<em> (this time to mask concern) </em>and Dad lowers the pills back down onto the nightstand.</p><p>“What’s the matter with you, Son? You should be healed by now. Let me have a look,” Dad orders in his gravelly voice.</p><p> Before Dean can stop him, Dad, tugs back the covers to expose what lies just underneath.</p><p>Dad can’t seem to suppress a look of surprise that Dean still has his <em>‘Zeppelin’</em> t-shirt on, but there’s more to it, than that.</p><p>Dean cowers on the bed as he takes in Dad’s murky stare that registers as nearly identical to the way <em>Jake</em> looked at him, last night.</p><p>
  <em>Like a piece of fine-tasting meat.</em>
</p><p>Cringing, Dean, shrinks back away the second Dad reaches out for him.</p><p>“P-Please, Dad. I’m <em>begging</em> you. Just, <strong><em>don’t</em></strong><em> …”</em> Dean pleads with him, as a last resort to keep his shame—<em>strictly-speaking</em>—his <strong>own</strong><em>.</em></p><p>Dad hesitates. Hand hovering just over the t-shirt that stops-off midway down Dean’s thighs.</p><p>As it stands, right now, Dad, can’t see the bruises that <em>Jake</em> left behind on him. Nor the welts from the hard, bare-handed spanks, Dean, took.</p><p>Dad’s eyes pair with his and for a fraction of a second, Dean, believes he might have convinced Dad <strong>not</strong> to … but he’s never been so <strong><em>fortunate</em></strong>.</p><p>One swift tug has Dean on complete display, and all that pent-up shame comes crashing in on, Dean, right along with it.</p><p>Dad’s expression twists into one of <em>abrupt</em> understanding—and the immediate stab of pang that overtakes Dean is acute and obliterating.</p><p><em>“Who</em> did this to you, Boy.” Dad asks through teeth clenched with rage, “I want a <strong><em>name</em></strong><em>.” </em>Although, Dad, presents as cool on the surface Dean knows better.</p><p>Dad is <strong><em>furious</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean buries his face in the side of the pillow and wills himself to die from this mind-numbing shame—maybe even from the effects of the pill itself that has his mind all spaced-out and lopsided.</p><p>Dean hears Dad sigh and the bed springs groan from his weight, the springs dipping in as Dad lays down at his side. Close enough that Dean can smell his aftershave, but far enough away so as <em>not</em> to invade Dean’s space—<em>to not force direct contact.</em></p><p>“I shouldn’t have left you here <em>alone</em> for so long. That was my mistake,” Dad whispers—<em>practically breathes even</em>—and Dean senses a knot in his gut begin to tighten. Because Dean is beginning to riddle out that he may have just lost Dad’s trust, <em>forever.</em></p><p>“I should have dropped you <em>and</em> Sammy at Bobby’s,” Dad states. “Should never have gone along with this <strong><em>nonsense</em></strong>, about you watchin’ Sammy.”</p><p>Dean’s head shoots up and he looks at Dad with immediate regret in his heart. He should have been able to stay cool on the phone, earlier. Why couldn’t he have just <em>lied?</em> <em>Coolly? </em></p><p>Like a <strong>normal</strong>, god-damned, person?</p><p>Why did he have to be such a goddamned, fuck-up? <em>Again?</em></p><p><em>“No!”</em> Dean shrieks and Dad’s jaw clenches, the hard muscle twitching a handful of times.</p><p>“Dean. Look at yourself, Son. You’re wrecked out of your right mind. And don’t think I don’t know what you must have allowed some <em>queer</em> to do to you for money. I ain’t stupid, Boy,” Dad’s voice goes a <em>gruff</em> on a few of the words as emotion chokes him up. And that word comes out at Dean like a sinuous jab<em>—‘Queer.’</em></p><p>Another flinch comes from Dean at the mention of cash, fist clenching deep into the bedsheets with a solid gouge.</p><p><em>“<strong>Dad</strong>,</em> <em>I …”</em> Dean is remotely thankful for the fuzziness that is still swimming ‘round inside of his head, right now. If it weren’t for that small blessing, Dean, would be crawling the walls just about now.</p><p>Dean would <em>completely</em> lose it.</p><p>“It <strong><em>was</em></strong> for cash, <em>wasn’t it? </em>Not <strong><em>pleasure</em></strong><em>?”</em> Dad pushes for an answer with those dark <em>‘Winchester’</em> eyes that are <strong>hard</strong> <em>(impossible)</em> to ignore—<em>impossible to argue with.</em></p><p>Dean swallows his pride—<em>his dignity</em>—and nods his exhausted head. Two lone tears escaping to make wet tracks down his cheeks.</p><p>“Cash,” Dean whispers, “Not pleasure … there <em>was</em> no pleasure, Dad.”</p><p>Dad nods his head stagnant pain etched and wrought into his eyes. A genuine air of discomfort hovering in the air. This is the most honest conversation Dean can ever remember having with Dad—and he’s half out of it right now.</p><p>One of Dad’s long-stemmed hands reaches out cautiously to cup Dean’s cheek, brushing away the wetness.</p><p>Flinching again, Dean, eases into the touch, <em>this time,</em> trying to force his skin to <strong><em>trust</em></strong> it—<em>to trust Dad.</em></p><p>“How much do you remember, Dean?” Dad sighs out, hesitantly, “about the night I last left?”</p><p>Dean thinks about lying, but quickly decides he simply doesn’t have it in him anymore. He can’t physically bring himself to so-much-as attempt another lie. Not to Dad. Dad would see clear through it and work out the truth before he even had out the full lie.</p><p>It’s hopeless to even attempt.</p><p><em>“<strong>Everything</strong>, Sir,”</em> Dean admits with reluctance.</p><p>Dad closes his eyes for a second and airs out a sigh, withdrawing his hand from Dean’s stiff cheek.</p><p>“Then you understand <em>why</em> it’s for the best that you and Sammy go live with your Uncle Bobby for a while,” Dad states it like a fact that <em>should</em> be obvious, but to Dean it’s anything but.</p><p>The fact that Dad admitted that he retains this supposed <em>weakness</em> when he’s in close proximity to Dean only makes things blurrier and more fractured for Dean’s current, fragile mindset.</p><p>Not clearer. <em>Never that.</em></p><p>This could be Dean’s sole opportunity to set things right, here. It could be the only change he’ll ever get to have Dad pay attention to him.</p><p>
  <em>This is one in a million.</em>
</p><p>Real talk with, Dad, <strong><em>never</em></strong> happens. At least, not when Dad is this close to<em> sober …</em></p><p>Dad shifts on the mattress in a bid to stand back up, when Dean makes a stupid, split-second decision to <em>fuck</em> his mind to pieces the rest of the way past <em>‘Crazy-Street.’</em></p><p>Leaning in, Dean, captures Dad’s lips and forces his own to move in tender little sweeps against them. Identical to the way Jake kissed him last night.</p><p>Dad makes an almost guttural, animal sound in his throat and rears back. Shoving out with his hands to force Dean back and away, so that he collides with the mattress, providing Dad ample time to scramble to his feet and back a few inches away from the mattress.</p><p>“You <strong><em>know</em></strong> the effect you have on me, Boy! Don’t you do that! Don’t you <strong><em>ever</em></strong> do something like that!” Dad shouts down at him with this fury overtaking his eyes, that should have Dean trembling, but the swirls of fuzziness have Dean’s rational fear, captive.</p><p>Dean, currently, is way more afraid of being abandoned at Uncle Bobby’s house with Sammy for an undetermined length of time<em>, (like they were three years ago)</em> than he is of Dad’s reaction to having a kissed shoved on him.</p><p>“You kissed me <strong><em>first</em></strong>, Dad,” Dean argues, propping himself up with one of his hands. “You tell me that I’m <em>like</em> her, that I’m like a <em>reflection</em> of her.”</p><p><em>“Dean,”</em> Dad says his name with this warning tone to his voice. Almost like some kind of explicit <em>order</em>—but Dean can’t be sure and he doesn’t <em>care</em> if it <strong><em>is</em></strong> an order.</p><p>If, Dad, is going to dump him <em>(like the trash Dean knows he is)</em> at Uncle Bobby’s than nothing he says or does right now, actually matters, whatsoever.</p><p>The way he sees it, he’s been <em>spanked</em>, <strong>fondled</strong>, pinned down while <em>ravaged</em>, had his innocence <b><em>stolen</em></b> from him, and been broken past any <strong><em>normal</em></strong> person’s capacity for endurance.</p><p>So, what more does he have to fucking <em>lose</em> at this point?</p><p>“I can’t <em>control</em> the way I look, Dad. I can’t <em>help</em> that I remind you of her, and that … that I also <strong><em>repulse</em></strong> you so much that you cannot bear to stick around, not even for <em>Sammy …”</em> Dean trails off, with a little shake of his head.</p><p>Dad narrows his eyes, staring down the end of his nose at Dean.</p><p>“I’m tryin’ to protect you, <em>both</em>, Dean. Whatever sick <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> did this to you, could have also turned ‘round and <strong><em>killed</em></strong> you. <strong><em>Understand</em></strong> that, Son. <strong><em>Really</em></strong> understand it!” Dad roars down at him, red-faced with a mixture of emotions that Dean can’t altogether puzzle out in his current state.</p><p>Dean stands wobbly to his feet and faces, Dad, dwarfed by his shadow.</p><p>“Is it any worse than what <em>you</em> want to do to me, Dad?” Dean dares to throw out into the mix of already careless, game-changing words they’ve both uttered.</p><p>When Dad looks at Dean with a tortured look, when he’s deep in the drink, it always reminds Dean of the <strong>filth</strong> that crawls in his own blood.</p><p>And when Dad shoots him that <strong><em>same</em></strong> tortured expression right now, Dean, is renewed in his <strong>vehement</strong> want to <em>die</em>—to be swallowed whole by the freaking <strong><em>carpet</em></strong>.</p><p>“Dean. You <strong>know</strong> I’d <em>never …”</em> It is Dad’s turn to trail off, as he is rendered <strong><em>speechless</em></strong> by Dean’s hard-hitting statement.</p><p>Dean drags his tongue across his lips and looks Dad square in the eyes. “I don’t know what’s <em>worse,</em> Dad,” Dean lowers his tired voice to a trembly whisper, “The fact that you <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> bring yourself to touch me, or that I’d actually <em>let</em> you. In a <em>heartbeat</em>.”</p><p>Dad widens his eyes in realization of <em>exactly</em> what Dean is insinuating and clears his throat. “Dean. You need to shut down this <strong><em>perverse</em></strong> train of thought in your head. <em>Right now.”</em></p><p>
  <em>That’s an order. </em>
</p><p>Dean knows <strong><em>it</em></strong> in his heart and his blood—<em>but he can’t bring himself to fucking care.</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t want to fall into line like, Dad’s, <em>‘good-little-soldier,’</em> like he has <strong>always</strong> done.</p><p>Dean latches tight to Dad’s leather jacket, with a strong sense of determination in his gut. <em>“Why?</em> What will you do to me if I <strong>don’t</strong>, Sir?” Dean quibbles, while the room spins for his dizzy mind.</p><p>Dean almost crumples to the ground as his knees buckle out of nowhere, but Dad’s strong arms are here to catch him. They hoist him off the carpet and skillfully tuck him<em>, (with a hint of force)</em> back into bed.</p><p>“You <em>need</em> to rest, Son. You aren’t thinkin’ straight, right now. This is the <em>pills</em> talkin.’ It ain’t <em>you,”</em> Dad seems to decide and Dean feels a pang in his chest when Dad <em>starts</em> to pull away.</p><p>Dad may have a point. Ordinarily, Dean, would never have said any of the things he’d just said—<em>not while sober</em>—but his tongue is loose and easy.</p><p>When he wakes up <em>(and is fully alert again)</em> Dean will be stricken with his own horror. But that will be it.</p><p><em>Unsteadily,</em> Dean, re-latches on to Dad’s leather jacket and tugs—<em>keeping him close.</em> And most importantly—<strong><em>here</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>“I don’t <em>want</em> you to be gone,” Dean tries to explain the messy thoughts in his head, again. “When I open my eyes, I <em>mean</em>. I don’t want you to have <strong><em>disappeared</em></strong> again. I need <strong>you</strong>, Dad<em> …</em> <em>Please …”</em></p><p>Dad sighs and Dean notices the way his shoulders deflate a little. After a second of thought, Dad, draws back the covers and tell him to <em>‘Scoot,’</em> and Dean complies.</p><p>Dad relieves himself of his shoes and sheds his leather jacket, before he climbs in behind, Dean.</p><p>There is a beat of silence, then, Dad reaches out and tucks a single arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him into his front. Dean forgot what this felt like—<em>being in Dad’s arms.</em></p><p>Dean can’t even remember how long it has been since Dad slept with him. Probably since before the fire, <em>like everything else.</em></p><p>Of course, the touch and nearness, feels different to Dean now. Now that he’s been <em>ruined</em> for anything even <strong><em>remotely</em></strong> good and decent. But Dean forces his <strong>mind</strong> to accept that Dad’s touch is <em>‘good touch,’</em> and that Dad’s touch will <strong>never</strong> intentionally hurt him—<em>not like Jake’s.</em></p><p>Dean can’t feel <em>bliss</em> like he did when Dad touched him, last, but he can feel slightly <strong><em>less</em></strong> sullied and devastated, because Dad is <strong>here</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>And he’s real.</em>
</p><p>“What <em>else</em> do you need, Son?” Dad asks, with a drained-sounding tone.</p><p>Dean thinks on it a moment, then pushes back into Dad’s <em>unconditionally-<strong>warm</strong></em> front, hearing the makings of a grunt out of Dad’s throat.</p><p><em>“Touch me, Dad,”</em> Dean dares to whisper and Dean senses Dad’s muscles lock up in shock, so he clarifies his meaning,” like you used to … before …”</p><p>Dad’s muscles do unclench, <em>then.</em> Immediate understanding seems to come over him and the low rumble of Dad breathing, tickles Dean’s ear.</p><p>“Just this <strong><em>once</em></strong>, Son.”</p><p>Dean breathes a little easier, when Dad eases his large hand underneath the hem of the baggy t-shirt. Driving up the front, leaving himself ample room to glide up and down Dean’s taught belly. Tweaking and kneading the rosebud-pinkening skin.</p><p>Dean didn’t ask Dad only because he wanted this—<em>needed this affectionate grabble</em>—but because of Sammy.</p><p>When, Sammy, had gone to touch him earlier, it had been <strong>hell</strong> for Dean—<em>Pure, hell. </em></p><p>Like a fire poker was delving in deep under the surface of his bruised-up skin, and Dean can’t allow himself to continue to react in that way.</p><p>
  <em>Not now.</em>
</p><p>Dean needs to work this out and <em>man-up</em>, because Sammy will know something is drastically wrong—<em>different</em>.</p><p>Sam is too smart for his own good—too pure and perfect to be exposed to the disgusting truth about Dean and his own dark, twisted <em>(poorly-concealed)</em> secrets.</p><p>So, Dean, is refamiliarizing himself with <em>‘good-touch,’</em> while trying to forgo all the damage, <em>branded</em> into him, by the <em>‘bad-touch,’</em> that was forced on him by that <em>wretched,</em> Jake.</p><p>The first few seconds of Dad and his explorative hand, has Dean reeling. He’s desperate to retract—<em>desperate to plead with him to stop</em>—even though it isn’t <em>(physically) </em>hurting him.</p><p>All of Dean’s current suffering is of an emotional nature.</p><p>Dad seems to note Dean and his hesitant way of handling physical contact, because his hand stills, suddenly.</p><p>“Why did you ask for this, Dean?” Dad questions. “You’re trembling, and it’s not from pleasure, Boy. I can tell the difference by now.”</p><p>Dean bites back tears and breathes through the tight panic in his chest.</p><p>“You <em>know</em> how Sammy sleeps, Dad. You know he can’t <strong>ever</strong> know about this. Not <em>any</em> of what I have done. So, I need <strong><em>you</em></strong> to touch me, I … I need to find a way <em>past</em> this.” Dean wants to make Dad <em>understand</em>—he’s positively <strong><em>desperate</em></strong> to.</p><p>“Dean. Sammy’s gettin’ too old for this sort of thing. It’s time you cut him <em>loose</em> from the needin’ of you. Or else he ain’t <strong>never</strong> gonna stand on his own,” Dad warns Dean.</p><p>Dean knows that Dad’s right. Dad is always right when it comes to certain things, <em>(such as <strong>need</strong>),</em> but Dean also knows that Sammy won’t understand the <strong>why</strong> of it. And if Sammy doesn’t understand something he harps and harps until he’s sure of what is actually going on.</p><p>“Like you cut <strong><em>me</em></strong> loose, Dad?” Dean challenges with a curb to his tone. “The way I see it, cutting me loose only made my need for you <strong>greater</strong>, <em>not lesser.”</em></p><p>Dad doesn’t immediately answer him, but Dean can hear Dad swallow a thick lump.</p><p>“That’s cause you’re like <strong><em>her</em></strong>, Dean. And I didn’t know how <em>much</em> until it was, too, late.”</p><p>Dad tortures Dean with that same statement about being <em>‘like Mom’ </em>and he’s done with it. It hurts so much when Dad does this. When Dad says things <em>like</em> this to him.</p><p>“Like her, <em>how, </em>Dad? What does that even <strong>mean</strong>? <em>‘Like her?’—”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Dean—”</em>
</p><p>“No, Dad. I want a <em>straight</em> <strong>answer</strong>, for once. I want to know what you mean when you say <em>‘like her,’ </em>exactly. Because it fucking <em>hurts</em>, Dad. It hurts and it stings and it isn’t <strong>fair</strong> that you say that to me, like it just <em>is</em>—like I am just this <em>untouchable</em> thing that you can’t run fast enough away from!” Dean knows his words are probably enough to throw Dad off-balance—but Dean can’t seem to stop <em>saying</em> them once they started.</p><p>They fall out, like complete word vomit.</p><p>Later on, Dean, intends to blame <em>everything</em> on the pills—<em>Dad already has once—</em>and maybe this is the pills speaking, but maybe it’s not.</p><p>Neither of them will ever actually know and that is fine by Dean.</p><p>“Fine, Dean,” Dad sighs, “Fine, Son … I just mean you’re sensitive. <em>Like</em> yer, Mom. You seek out <strong>contact</strong> the same way she did, almost brazenly, and sensual-like.”</p><p>Dean tries to process what Dad is telling him, but it is an awful <em>lot</em> to take in.</p><p>“She liked it when I touched her, <em>slow</em>. When I <em>showed</em>, more than <strong><em>said</em></strong>, that I loved her. And, God, I <em>did</em> love her, Dean. Jus’ the same as I <em>love</em> you.”</p><p>Dean experiences shivers of sensuality flutter underneath his skin and tears wick up, again, in his ocean-deep eyes.</p><p>Dad starts to touch him in slow sweeps of deep, probing contact with his belly and chest. Dean <em>sigh-gasps,</em> when Dad twirls his index around one of Dean’s pink-puckered nipples. The coolish breeze of air in the room makes Dean’s shivers turn to shudders and goosebumps start to rise all over Dean’s flesh like pimples.</p><p>Underneath the trace-pleasure there is still horror and fear worked into it all <em>(intensely-so)</em> for Dean. Plus, Dean, still has his mind spinning from what Dad just went and admitted to him, like it was no big deal.</p><p>“You once said it was my <em>looks,</em> Dad,” Dean prompts him, “My <em>appearance …”</em></p><p>Dad huddles Dean in closer, until their bodies are back to front. The flesh of Dean’s <em>half-bare</em> back and ass, flush to Dad’s well-defined front.</p><p><em>“Yeah.</em> Parts of you remind me of her. You get this <strong>look</strong> in your eye, this <em>strong will</em>, and there ain’t no <em>preventing</em> ya, after that. Same as <strong>her</strong>.”</p><p>Dean closes his eyes and his mind goes into a full-on tailspin. It is difficult to take in that his personality is just like Mom’s, especially when Dean remembers so little of her in the cloud of his memories.</p><p>This conversation is more than Dean has ever, before, managed to coerce out of Dad and Dean doesn’t know if Dad is telling him all of this because he asked, or because Dad feels guilty about what happened to Dean in his absence.</p><p>Pants of panic begin to rise again in Dean’s chest as sudden flashes of Jake force their way into the forefront, <em>straight out of nowhere. </em></p><p>Starting to whimper, Dean, is on the verge of tears in seconds flat, with nowhere for this blinding panic to go.</p><p>It just is—<em>it’s just everywhere</em>—and debilitating.</p><p>Dad stills his hand and breaks through Dean’s panicky sounds with rough words. “This aint gonna fix <strong>nothin</strong>, Dean. There isn’t a <em>way</em> to fix this kind of hurt.”</p><p>Dean twitches his jaw and blinks back the ocean of tears just waiting to be unleashed behind his eyes.</p><p>“It will,” Dean persists, “Once I get past the <em>shock</em>, it will. I just … I need you to <strong><em>keep</em></strong> touching me, Dad. Even … even if I fall apart, this is what I <em>need</em> you to do.”</p><p>Dad sighs with a rumble of emotion and Dean doesn’t expect his next set of words. “Why did you <em>let</em> a man do this to you, Son? You said there wasn’t a <strong><em>lick</em></strong> of pleasure in it for you. Money ain’t worth <em>‘turning tricks,’</em> for,” Dad hesitates on the last of it and his voice goes real low and raspy, “not when I fought so <strong><em>hard</em></strong> to keep you innocent.”</p><p>Dean knows what Dad means by <em>‘innocent.’</em> Before, last night, Dean’s virginity was the only <em>‘innocence’</em> he’d still retained.</p><p>Now, that’s <strong><em>all</em></strong> shot to hell.</p><p>“For Sammy, Sir,” Dean practically breathes the words he says them so low. “Everything I’ve ever done—<em>I’ll ever do</em>—is always gonna be for Sammy.”</p><p>“Sam s’not your responsibility, <em>alone,</em> Dean. He’s <em>mine</em>, too. You’re <em>both</em> my kids—”</p><p>“Not <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong>, Dad,” Dean says possessively with a tightness to his heart. “Sammy is <em>my</em> kid. <em>I</em> taught him his speech, <em>I </em>potty trained him, and <em>I</em> make sure he knows right from wrong. He can only sleep if I am by his side and he looks to me in <strong><em>all</em></strong> things. And I couldn’t let Sammy go hungry, Dad. I’d rather let a vile man tear me to <em>shreds</em> than see <strong><em>my</em></strong> Sammy starve.”</p><p>Dad eases his hand in taut circles around and round against Dean’s exposed midriff, for a few ticks.</p><p>“This <strong><em>thing</em></strong> with Sam you have, it isn’t healthy, Dean. Matter of fact, none of this is healthy or right. You shouldn’t care more for him than you do <em>yourself</em>. Maybe I should drop him off at Uncle Bobby’s, take you off for a bit with me.”</p><p>Dean’s heart stops and he turns on a dime in Dad’s sheltering arms. The ultimate painstaking look etched onto Dean’s face.</p><p>“You <em>can’t</em> take him from me, Dad! Please! I … I’ll never <em>‘turn tricks,’</em> again … I’ll do something <strong>else</strong>, next time. I <em>will</em> … I’ll be a <em>better</em> son to you … Just … Just don’t take <em>my</em> Sammy away … Don’t make me <strong><em>live</em></strong> without him!”</p><p>Dad gives off a perplexed look as Dean immediately descends into crumpled frantics. Because, now, Dean, wishes he really <strong><em>had</em></strong> kept his goddamn mouth shut on the phone, earlier. This conversation with Dad just took an unexpectedly sudden <em>dive</em> and is now heading into <em>deadly</em> territory that Dean can’t live with.</p><p>And it is, too, much.</p><p><strong><em>Far</em></strong>, too much …</p><p>Dad seems to become more <em>(not less)</em> convinced the more Dean tries to persuade him against this drastic course of action.</p><p>And finally, Dad, stops Dean dead in his tracks when he says, “Dean. You need a bit of time to <em>heal</em>, <strong><em>away</em></strong> from Sammy. You said it yourself, that he shouldn’t see you like this, and I have to agree with you on that. Right now, your body is just <em>too</em> damaged to be touched and Sammy won’t <strong>get</strong> that. So, a bit of time with Uncle Bobby might do the boy some <em>good</em>. Might toughen him up a little. Make him need you a little less.”</p><p>Every single word that comes out of Dad’s mouth sends Dean into even <em>more</em> of a head-fuck than the last, until Dean is unwittingly crying down his cheeks with snot coming out his nose.</p><p>The thought of being away from, Sammy, <em>(even for a day)</em> is unimaginable for Dean!</p><p>Dad is sliding off the mattress and risen to his feet, before Dean’s slow mind can comprehend what it is that Dad is doing.</p><p>Dad shoves on his shoes and tugs on his jacket, and the leather crinkles in the room.</p><p>To Dean’s horror, Dad, starts gathering up Sammy’s things, to pack them up in Sammy’s suitcase. And as panic rises in Dean, he’s forced to watch as Dad goes calmly from the bathroom to the foot of the bed, collecting and all of Sammy’s strewn-about things.</p><p>Effectively removing every <em>conceivable</em> trace of Sammy from this room.</p><p>“Dad! Please! I’ll do <strong>anything</strong>! <em>Anything!”</em> Dean sobs out in manner of hysterics. The worthlessness building up like a thick clog inside of him—sending his mind into <em>‘protect-Sammy’</em> mode.</p><p>“I have made <em>up</em> my mind, Dean, and you aren’t gonna change it, so you might as well sit back down.”</p><p>The tender moment between them from a minute ago, is not only diminished but <strong><em>erased</em></strong> and Dean doesn’t know how he is going to handle being <em>Sammy-less</em> for any practical length of time—let alone a month!</p><p>This is Dean’s <strong>worst</strong> nightmare.</p><p>
  <em>Losing Sammy.</em>
</p><p>Dean clutches his arms tight to his chest and breathes through his hyperventilation, trying to calm himself down—<em>unsuccessfully.</em></p><p>When Dad finishes, zips, then picks up Sammy’s suitcase and starts for the door, Dean, scrambles to his feet in a final bid to block Dad’s path and change his mind.</p><p>“Touch me, <em>again,</em> Dad. I’ll be <strong>good</strong> this time … I <strong><em>won’t</em></strong> cry and I … I’ll try to be <em>perfect</em> for you, again, Sir. I’ll share your bed … You can <strong>kiss</strong> me and do whatever you <em>need,</em> Dad … I’ll take care of <strong>you</strong>, too, just … <em>just let me keep <strong>him</strong>.”</em></p><p>In his <strong>vagrant</strong> desperation, Dean, drags a hand against Dad’s crotch. Pushes on the space he <em>knows</em>, Dad’s, <strong><em>need</em></strong> lies.</p><p>Dad, <em>reacts</em>, too.</p><p> Dean senses Dad’s package twitch to life in his cupped-palm.</p><p>Dad, then makes a tremendous grunt that surely holds <em>all</em> the lust from the better part of over <em>half-a-decade</em> <strong>without</strong> Mom.</p><p>The noise alone gives Dean flickered hope that his pleas <strong><em>are</em></strong> working—that he has a chance if he can only say the right thing, next.</p><p>That is until, Dad, pushes him <strong>violently</strong> away and Dean is sent tumbling toward the mattress, his side <em>jamming</em> into the end of the wooden bedframe with a thud that sees, Dean, <em>double-over</em> in a mixture of pain and agony.</p><p>Dean sinks to his knees on the carpet, clutching tight to his <strong>throbbing</strong> waist and hip, as the realization that his last attempt has failed—<em>begins to sink right in.</em></p><p>
  <em>Shit! It fucking hurts like a bitch!</em>
</p><p>Dad hovers over him with this anger displayed on his face, hand trembling. Sammy’s meager suitcase clutched in his right fist and that same furious look in his eyes that Dean has <em>always</em> been most afraid of.</p><p>“This ends <em>now,</em> Dean! No more <em>begging</em> for touches. No more <em>whoring</em> yourself to strangers. No more of this absolute <strong><em>nonsense</em></strong><em>,</em> Dean! You aren’t <em>good</em> for, Sammy, or <strong>anyone</strong>! Not like <strong><em>this</em></strong><em>!</em> And I can’t in good conscience, leave Sammy alone with you right now. And I have to get back to the hunt I left, to <em>come</em> here!”</p><p>Dad puts down Sammy’s suitcase, fishes in his pocket, and pulls out two-hundred in cash.</p><p>“I will come back for you in a <em>week</em>, Dean. I am going to pick up Sammy from school and drop him at Uncle Bobby’s, and that is just gonna <em>have</em> to be that!” Dad snaps in his <em>‘no-room-for-arguments,’</em> tone.</p><p>Dad puts the cash down on the nearby table and Dean’s brain stalls<em>. </em></p><p>
  <em>Dean can’t find words. </em>
</p><p>Not a single, <strong>solitary</strong>, one.</p><p>Dean just looks to Dad, brokenly, with unshed tears in his eyes.</p><p>Dad softens a little, now, but <strong><em>only</em></strong> a little.</p><p>“Dean, this <em>isn’t</em> a punishment. It is for your <strong>own</strong> good. You need to worry a little <strong>more</strong> about <strong><em>you</em></strong> and a little <em>less</em> about, Sam. He is going to be <strong>fine</strong>. Him spendin’ a month or two at Uncle Bobby’s will help you get your mind <em>straight</em>. I’m not <strong>abandoning</strong> you, Son. This is to help make you <em>better</em>, okay?”</p><p>Dean turns his face away from, Dad, still unable to say a <strong><em>damned</em></strong> thing.</p><p>Dad sighs again, picks up Sammy’s suitcase, and walks out the door, leaving Dean abruptly, alone with the empty <em>mess</em> of his thoughts.</p><p>Sammy is going to think that Dean asked Dad to take him away, because of <em>this</em> morning. Dean realizes the extent of his fuck-up when he snapped at Sammy—<em>when he made Sammy cry this morning</em>—and he isn’t even going to have the <strong>chance</strong> to apologize for it, now, like Dean had hoped he would.</p><p>Sammy has never been away from Dean.</p><p>Not, <em>once,</em> since he was <strong>born</strong>.</p><p>Dean can’t work out that Dad is <em>really</em> doing this to him. That Dad heard <strong><em>everything</em></strong> that Dean said—<em>every single word of it</em>—and used Dean’s words as <strong>fodder</strong> towards this <em>determination</em> to separate them.</p><p>This fate is worse than <em>death</em>, right now, for Dean.</p><p>Dean would rather be <strong>dead</strong> than without, Sammy.</p><p>And Dad doesn’t even <strong><em>care</em></strong>.</p><p>The roar of the Impala’s engine <em>really</em> slams home, the fact that <em>this</em> <strong>is</strong> happening. That Dean finally fucked-up so completely that Dad doesn’t believe he <em>deserves</em> the privilege of Sammy.</p><p>Dad doesn’t seem to even remotely care—<em>understand</em>—that without Sammy, Dean, <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> get better.</p><p>
  <em>Dean won’t.</em>
</p><p>He will only get worse and worse. As much as Sammy sometimes bugs the <strong>crap</strong> out of, Dean, he is also the sole reason that Dean can even <em>smile</em>. That Dean can even fucking <strong><em>breathe</em></strong> when he unwinds into a <strong><em>tight</em></strong> panic.</p><p>Dad took <em>everything</em> Dean said and <strong><em>twisted</em></strong> it—<em>made it wrong</em>—and in the interim only helped drive home the point to, Dean, that he deserves <em>nothing at all. </em></p><p>Least of all <strong>understanding</strong>—<em>and Dad’s supposedly, unconditional love.</em></p><p>Worst of all, he staked home that Dean even being <em>near</em> Sammy is <strong>bad</strong> for <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong>. Something Dean has spent weeks trying to convince himself is <em>untrue</em>.</p><p>And maybe Dean <em>is—Bad for Sammy. </em>The hell if he knows with any <strong>actual</strong> certainty.</p><p>What, Dean, does know—<em>and can accept</em>—is that Dad is <strong>pissed</strong> at him. Dean pushed way too far and well past the brink of fine lines drawn out between Dad and himself.</p><p>
  <em>These are the consequences.</em>
</p><p>He never should have <em>asked</em> Dad to touch him. Never should have picked up the phone and cried like a <strong><em>bitch</em></strong> in the <strong><em>first</em></strong> place.</p><p>Now, Sammy, will <strong>suffer</strong>, too.</p><p>And this—<em>all of this fucking shit</em>—is Dean’s own goddamned fault.</p><p>And how, <strong><em>exactly</em></strong>, is Dean supposed to live with <strong><em>that</em></strong><em>?</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>ix. highways apart &amp; divide lines.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dad had <strong>never</strong> picked Sam up from school <em>(without Dean in the Impala)</em> before today.</p><p>And despite, how vocal Sam was about, Dean, Dad, kept a tight lip and a stoic expression that had Sam uneasy and in tears.</p><p>Dad maintained a tight grip on the wheel, the whole drive to Uncle Bobby’s house <em>(despite Sam’s continued sobbing the whole way) </em>and all Dad would say is that, Dean, needed some ‘<em>time alone.’</em></p><p>Time <strong><em>away</em></strong> from <strong><em>Sam</em></strong>.</p><p>It has been exactly five hours since Dad dumped Sam off at Uncle Bobby’s and Sam cried, kicked, and <em>fought</em>, Uncle Bobby, to stay with Dad—<em>and return to Dean</em>—but nothing he did, <strong>worked</strong>.</p><p>Sam reminisces about the events of the morning, and in the back of his mind realizes that something must be <strong><em>very</em></strong> wrong with Dean.</p><p>Not climbing out of bed isn’t like Dean—and the way he barked at him to ‘<em>go away?’</em></p><p>
  <em>Also, not like Dean.</em>
</p><p>Sam tries to work it all out, but keeps coming up short, because all he can think about is the fact that he is stranded at Uncle Bobby’s house and Dean isn’t <strong>here</strong>. And that <strong><em>he</em></strong> must have done something that made <strong>Dean</strong> want him gone …</p><p>Sam hasn’t stopped crying since Uncle Bobby guided him inside <em>(because he had taken up residence on the porch stubbornly waiting for Dad to come back and get him which didn’t end up happening)</em> and settled him upstairs in the usual guest bedroom, alone.</p><p>Uncle Bobby, tried to console him by telling him that he would be attending the local school in the meantime, but Sam doesn’t <strong><em>care</em></strong> about that—for the first time he doesn’t give a <strong>crap</strong> about school or learning.</p><p>Sam just wants <strong><em>Dean</em></strong>.</p><p>Having kicked his shoes straight off the edge of the lumpy mattress in Uncle Bobby’s guest bedroom, Sam, tucks his head into his knees and his shoulders shake as he cries.</p><p>Dad had, had a private conversation with Uncle Bobby for a few minutes when they first arrived. Sam had tried and failed to make out what exactly was being said, but the tones were <em>hush-hush</em> and Uncle Bobby’s eyes had expressed such vapid concern that Sam still can’t be sure that something <strong>bad</strong> didn’t <em>happen</em> to Dean.</p><p>Though, maybe, it is just like Dad said—Dean wants time <strong><em>away</em></strong> from Sam.</p><p>Dean has noticeably changed over the last couple of months, and Sam took notice of those changes’ little bits at a time.</p><p>Like, when Dean shoved him off the couch all those weeks ago and told him <em>never</em> to tell, Dad, about it. Sam still can’t work out exactly <strong><em>why</em></strong> Dad must never know, but he’d <em>never</em> rat on Dean.</p><p>Dean is … <em>Dean.</em></p><p>Dean is <em>safety, love, warmth …</em> Dean is Sam’s whole damn <strong>world</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>And, now … now Sam’s all alone.</em>
</p><p>Uncle Bobby is grumpy at the best of times and Sam always used to run to Dean when Uncle Bobby’s temperament was all-but too much to take.</p><p>Now, there is no one to <em>protect</em> him—no one to make him feel <strong>safe</strong> and warm—and most of all, <strong>comfortable</strong>. To make his lower-half tingle and squeeze, like two weeks ago in their <em>shared</em> motel bed. Sam, still doesn’t know what Dean did to him—<em>but it felt right</em>—good in ways that Sam can never hope to describe.</p><p>But, Dean, also spoke of his need for privacy and less of Sam’s intrusiveness. Sam regrets that he didn’t just <strong>listen</strong> when Dean asked him to stop barging in on private moments in the bathroom. Is that what this is about?</p><p>Sam doesn’t know that either.</p><p>Sam doesn’t know anything, <em>at all.</em></p><p>So, what is he supposed to do now?</p><p>
  <em>Without <strong>his</strong> Dean?</em>
</p><p>Uncle Bobby knocks on the door and lets himself in. Sam doesn’t bother with trying to hide that he’s <em>still</em> crying. Sam doesn’t really care all that much, if Uncle Bobby sees.</p><p>“I want to talk to, <em>Dean!”</em> Sam snaps, as though demanding it will make it come to fruition.</p><p>Uncle Bobby sets down a tray of food on the nearby nightstand, but Sam turns his face away—refusing to even so-much-as glance at the tv dinner Uncle Bobby prepared.</p><p>“Your brother needs time to his’self, Sam,” Uncle Bobby states, with as much patience as Sam has ever known Uncle Bobby to have. “Besides, John, didn’t leave me a number for, Dean, anyway.”</p><p>That perks up Sam’s attention and he gapes at, Uncle Bobby, <strong>nullified</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>“W-What?”</em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry, Sam. Yer just gonna have to make do without, Dean, for the time bein,’” Bobby admits.</p><p>Sam likens Uncle Bobby’s words as having a swift punch land in the center of his stomach.</p><p>He is going to be completely <strong>alone</strong>—<em>without anyone to hold him</em>—without Dean to say <em>goodnight?</em></p><p>Even if it’s just Dean’s voice through a <strong>crackly</strong> phoneline, it’d be something … but Sam is <strong><em>completely</em></strong> cut-off.</p><p><em>Isolated</em>.</p><p><em>Left behind</em>.</p><p>And what about Dean’s touches? Sam can’t <em>possibly</em> hope to sleep without them!</p><p>When, Sam, descends back into muffled tears, Uncle Bobby, makes a stealthy exit, clearly made uncomfortable by Sam and all his untampered emotions.</p><p>Sam refuses to touch the food, even though his stomach growls violently in recognition of his hunger.</p><p>Sam can’t eat when he is <strong><em>this</em></strong> worried about Dean. Did, Dean, <em>really</em> get sick of him? Tell, Dad, to not even leave Uncle Bobby with a <strong>number</strong> to keep in contact?</p><p>Is this what <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> wants? To cut Sam <em>completely</em> from his life?</p><p>Sam turns off the small lamp on the nightstand and draws the covers up and over his head, hiding in them for warmth and presumed safety.</p><p>Nothing helps, but at least he doesn’t have to look at the unfamiliar walls and furnishings, and remember that Dean <em>isn’t</em> here—<em>and he isn’t gonna be.</em></p><p>Sam wants to apologize for whatever he did to make Dean <em>so</em> <strong>mad</strong> at him. Sam wants to go back and not ask a thousand questions when Dean so clearly didn’t <em>want</em> to answer any of them.</p><p>Sam wants to be less selfish and he <em>(most of all)</em> just wants <strong>Dean</strong>.</p><p>Sam trembles on the bed, knowing he won’t attain a wink of sleep, at all, and ignores the growls in his belly as hunger provides him with a <em>somewhat</em> distraction from the lack of Dean.</p><p> </p><p>xxxxx</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The darkness that chases, Dean, like a bad toothache, just <em>won’t</em> let him alone.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know what to do, without Sam. Dean doesn’t know how to be—<em>and he doesn’t know how to function</em>.</p><p>Dean merely <strong><em>exists</em></strong>.</p><p>There is no solace where there is no Sammy and Dean feels that, acutely, <em>(like a hacked-off limb)</em> in his very <strong><em>desecrated</em></strong> soul.</p><p>Dean tortures himself with the memory of Dad leaving him here—<em>alone</em>—in a semi-rage. Dad’s actions are the ultimate betrayal and Dean <strong>won’t</strong> forgive him for this.</p><p>Not so long as he <strong><em>lives</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean stares at the empty bed that he shared with Sam and he wonders if Sam blames him for their separation. Dean wonders what Dad has said <em>to</em> Sam—<em>what Dad did to make this hole in Dean wide and real—</em>and unendurable.</p><p>Without, Sam, all Dean can do is sit back and reminisce about the brutal assault—and the demeaning-ly, low amount of cash chucked down at him, afterward.</p><p>Over and over, Dean, suffers through the string of death-like abuse—<em>of suffering</em>—and he just wants Sammy to cling to him like a monkey and make him forget about it all.</p><p>If, Dad, had just <strong><em>touched</em></strong>, Dean, like he had <strong>asked</strong> him, too, then he could have faced Sammy without the burden of this constant <em>ache</em> hanging overhead.</p><p>But, Dad, chose the path towards Dean’s <strong><em>assured</em></strong> destruction, instead.</p><p>If nothing else, Dean, now has an answer to one of his most obnoxiously-relentless questions that lives in his head: <em>Is, Dad, repulsed by him?</em></p><p>The answer is, <em>‘Yes.’</em></p><p>The answer is, <strong><em>undoubtably</em></strong>, <em>yes</em>.</p><p>Only pure disdain would drive Dad to launch him into the bedframe like he did all those countless hours ago—and only that, would cause Dad to take <em>his</em> Sammy away, when he begged and pleaded <em>(like a pitiful wretch</em>) for him <strong>not</strong> to.</p><p>Dad said he wants for Dean to heal, but Dean <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> heal without Sam.</p><p>Dean never let Dad into his most <em>intrusive</em> thoughts <strong><em>before</em></strong>, today. Before this … this, <em>betrayal</em>.</p><p>Dean has never let <strong>anyone</strong> inside of his <em>head (not even Sammy) </em>and now Dean knows that he never <em>can</em> let anyone in, <em>again.</em></p><p>Dad used Dean’s <em>weakness</em> against him. And now, Sammy’s, just gone. And so is <em>Dad</em>.</p><p>He heads into the bathroom to stare at his own ugliness in the sink mirror. Takes in the pale skin on his cheeks, splotched redness around his sunken, <em>racoon-esqe</em> eyes, and the pink outline of his lips.</p><p>All he thinks about as he stares, is that he <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to be better—<em>stronger</em>—for Sammy. Dean wants to turn off his emotions, to just stop <strong>feeling</strong> things, but he <em>can’t</em>.</p><p>Physically, emotionally—<em>there isn’t a way</em> for Dean to do that.</p><p>And in this moment of <strong>absolute</strong> fury—<em>at his reflection, at himself</em>---Dean lashes out, punching the mirror, obliterating it to shards that downfall into the porcelain sink-bowl with a loud <em>clatter</em>.</p><p>Without the ability to stare at his reflection, Dean, feels <strong>multitudes</strong> better, but also worse. Because, Sammy, will <strong>still</strong> think Dean <strong>abandoned</strong> him.</p><p>And that <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> okay with any part of Dean—<em>not even a little.</em></p><p>Blood soaks Dean’s knuckles but he doesn’t much care about that.</p><p> In fact, the pain is much deserved in Dean’s view.</p><p>In a <em>split</em>-<strong>second</strong> of anger, Dean, hoists a shard of glass from the sink-bowl, lifts up Dad’s oversize shirt, and slices a paper-thin line down the length of his torso.</p><p>Blood oozes from the wound and Dean stares down at it, letting the depths of his emotional turmoil sink in. And his skin shivers and stews just under the surface of his consciousness.</p><p>Dean leaves the bathroom with a sickness roiling in his gut. Curls up in a pathetic, ball-like shape on the bed he shared with Sammy.</p><p>The sheets below still faintly <strong>smell</strong> like Sammy and Dean takes a long pull of air from them, in a moot attempt at finding some solace, somewhere.</p><p>Dean <strong>can’t</strong> heal—<em>and he knows that</em>—even as he bleeds into the cotton fabric of Dad’s t-shirt and allows his mind to fade in <em>rational</em>.</p><p>With nothing but time and weakness to show for his loss of innocence, yesterday, Dean, makes the decision—<em>here and now</em>—that Dad will <strong>never</strong> know his true emotions, again.</p><p>Dad will never <em>take</em> Sammy from him—<em>again.</em></p><p>If Dad wants Dean to <strong>not</strong> be weak—<em>to not be fucking human</em>—than Dean <em>won’t</em> be.</p><p>
  <em>He’ll be a goddamned stone wall.</em>
</p><p>A perfectly repaired and restructured piece of primordial glass.</p><p>And Dean makes another promise to himself, internally, no matter what happens. And no matter how <em>much</em> Sammy begs—Dean will <strong><em>never</em></strong> touch him below the belt again.</p><p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p><p>Dean’s <em>wacked-out</em> kind of love for Sammy isn’t healthy and it sure as fuck isn’t normal, and Dad had probably seen that.</p><p>So, Dean, has to be a good big brother. And he can’t let Sammy climb his way <em>underneath</em> his skin when they’re <strong>alone</strong>.</p><p>Dean has to find a <strong><em>divide</em></strong> and he will—<em>he swears that he will.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two months, is a <strong>long</strong> time to go without proper rest and nutrition—<em>but Sam does.</em></p><p>Days at, Uncle Bobby’s, are long and slow with lots of grumbles and cussing from the man himself.</p><p>Sam doesn’t feel like he’s <strong>functioning</strong> a whole lot without, Dean, and that is probably because he <em>isn’t</em>.</p><p>Time is like a <strong><em>curse</em></strong> here.</p><p>The constant pit in Sam’s stomach that beckons him homeward bound, towards Dean has only grown stronger every day, so-much-so, that Sam has become despondent.</p><p>There is no oasis at Uncle Bobby’s—and school is a torture-ground of hell all its own for Sam. The other kids don’t take to him like those back in Colorado did.</p><p>South Dakota is a harsh, demoralizing place, especially in the early months of the year.</p><p>Dad doesn’t call to check in, once, and neither does Dean.</p><p>Radio silence from his blood-family is all that Sam finds when he returns home from school each day with another split-lip and tear-stained face.</p><p>Uncle Bobby doesn’t seem to know what to do with him and though Uncle Bobby tries, he’s never gonna be a fit replacement for Dean.</p><p>
  <em>No one could be.</em>
</p><p>The lumpy mattress in the guest bedroom is not the same without Dean here to share it with him. And though, Sam, eventually learns how to cry himself to sleep<em> (after those first days of being unable to sleep at all)</em> Sam soon discovers that his mind takes over and forces sleep on him, whether he thinks he can or not.</p><p>Then, there comes the constant stomach aches from lack of food. Sam picks, eating only enough to keep himself alive—<em>no more, no less.</em></p><p>Refusing to eat is the only way Sam knows how to rebel, here. It’s all he can manage to do, to let Uncle Bobby know how unhappy he is—<em>how alone he feels.</em></p><p>Dark circles have rooted themselves around the rims of Sam’s eyes and his healthy, somewhat-muscled flesh on his arms, legs, and torso, turn to skin and bone.</p><p>Uncle Bobby worries for him. Sam can see it plainly in his troubled eyes, but there isn’t a thing either of them can do to change Sam’s demeanor. And God knows Uncle Bobby has tried.</p><p>He’s tried to fatten Sam up with treats and coax him out of the guest room to help fix some of the old ‘<em>Junkers’</em> in the yard, but Sam isn’t <em>like</em> Dean—he derives absolutely <strong>zero</strong> enjoyment out of repairing things on old <em>‘rust-buckets.’</em></p><p>Sam can’t find the light at Uncle Bobby’s, because there isn’t any.</p><p>Dean <em>is</em> Sam’s light.</p><p>Without Dean, Sam, is utterly and unmistakably lost and unwound.</p><p>Then, there is the imparted <strong><em>ache</em></strong>.</p><p>An ache Sam has acquired since being dumped here to feel Dean’s hands in contact with his skin. A chance to hear Dean’s whispers in his ears, and know Dean as <strong><em>intimately</em></strong> as he does himself, because his limbs wind around Dean like an Orangutang—and their infinite shared experiences work to strengthen the cusp of their bond.</p><p>Sam eats so little, that sometimes, his food comes back up on him. It will burn his throat and wind up flushed down the toilet with the water in a swirl.</p><p>Sam is <strong><em>tired</em></strong> of crying, but his eyes don’t <em>stop</em>. Sometimes, he wonders if he is <strong>dying</strong>, but it never seems to happen.</p><p>And on the rare occasion that Sam finds himself asleep, he dreams of Dean and the last interaction between them before Sam was whisked away and dumped at Uncle Bobby’s.</p><p>Sam wakes in a sweat, <em>pondering,</em> what he did wrong.</p><p>Sam thinks about what he must have done to make Dean want him gone, but for the life of him, Sam, can’t puzzle it out. And that kills him deep inside, more than anything else ever could.</p><p>It isn’t <em>just</em> that Dean needed space that caused this rift of burden in, Sam, but the fact that Dean doesn’t even pick up the phone and dial Uncle Bobby to speak to him.</p><p>That is what drives home that Dean really <em>did</em> want Sam gone.</p><p>Without, Dean, to practice fighting with, Sam, has lost muscle-tone, and it shows. The clothes, Sam, arrived with, bag on him and though he has grown an inch or so in height, he’s lost much <em>more</em> in body weight.</p><p>Sam, sits out on the porch, every single <em>day</em> when he arrives home from school—and he stares out at the road. Hoping against hope that the Impala will someday pull in.</p><p>And when that day eventually does come to pass—and Sam comes face to face with Dean it isn’t at all, what he expects.</p><p><em>Today,</em> hasn’t gone at all—<em>as Sam dreamed it.</em></p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>
    <br/>
    <b>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</b>
    <br/>
  </i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. part 3; ties that bind & gnarl flesh like poison.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i> Dean learns what it means to be poison. And the consequences are explosive.<br/>Dean's time with Dad, and Sam's time with changed Dean.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>This one took a little bit longer than the other two (and is also a longer installment than the others!), I've posted so far, because I've been editing it and adding/tweaking things repeatedly, trying to make it perfect! I hope you guys enjoy this next installment. I have also decided this is probably going to go beyond the initial ten parts I believed it would. </i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Love could be labeled poison</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>And we’d drink it anyways.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 3; ties that bind &amp; gnarl flesh like poison.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>x. cracks in the pallet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dust kicks up the dirt in Uncle Bobby’s junkyard as the sun shines off the black Impala that turns into the lot.</p><p>Lost in his ever-racing thoughts about Dean and all the things he has ever done wrong, Sam, perks up on a dime and is up and off the porch at a <em>charge</em> before Dad can even park.</p><p>Dean is in the front seat and by Sam’s own reckoning he is far worse for wear than Sam can recall Dean being, last they were together.</p><p>Dean has always been strong, warm-arms, and a lean, well-defined torso. Sam has spent the better part of his life crowding Dean’s lap and inhaling his boyhood scent of <em>detergent soap and sweat.</em></p><p>Sam knows Dean better than he knows himself and the boy that steps out of the Impala to greet him, doesn’t look anything like the one Sam left behind in Colorado.</p><p>Dean’s ordinarily deep-green eyes are steely and cold—<em>dull even</em>—and he has shot up an inch or two in height, but lost bulk around his middle <em>(much like Sam has himself) </em>and when Sam stares up at Dean—<em>Sam almost feels shy.</em></p><p>“De!” Sam hesitates, unsure whether Dean will even <strong>allow</strong> Sam to hug him or not.</p><p>The radio silence of the last two—<em>almost three</em>—months gives Sam reasonable pause with which to doubt himself.</p><p>Dad steps out of the Impala with a clink of keys and a slam of the door, and Sam takes a step away from Dean to glance<em>, uneasily,</em> at Dad.</p><p>“Go gather your stuff and get in the car, Son. We gotta get a move on,” Dad instructs, and although Sam is used to being greeted with little enthusiasm from, Dad—he’s always felt welcome to a hug.</p><p>
  <em>Not today. </em>
</p><p>But this is also the first time Sam doesn’t have any want to argue with Dad.</p><p>Sam won’t miss the school near Uncle Bobby’s house <em>(not in the least)</em> and for once, he’s excited to move somewhere new; away from the crap he’s been taking every day for <strong>weeks</strong>.</p><p>Sam still hesitates, however, because he wants to hug <strong>Dean</strong> <em>(more than anything in the world)</em> but Dean hasn’t opened his arms in invitation for one.</p><p>Dean hasn’t even done more than stare Sam up and down with a blank <em>(unreadable)</em> expression that resembles Dad’s own—a lot more than Sam wants to think about.</p><p>“That was an <strong>order</strong>, Boy! That means, <em>now!”</em> Dad barks at Sam and he <em>startles</em>.</p><p>Dean seems to come out of himself a bit, when Dad barks an order at Sam, because he holds out his hand for Sam to take and says, “Come on, <em>Sammy</em>. I’ll help.”</p><p>Sam forgoes the hug <em>(he’s clearly not gonna get)</em> and disappointedly follows Dean through Uncle Bobby’s house and up the rickety stairs straight into the guest room.</p><p>Now that they are alone <em>(and Dean is indeed helping him to pack)</em> Sam decides to take the plunge and attempt a conversation with his big brother.</p><p>“Where have you been, De?” Sam wants to ask more questions <em>(desperately)</em> but, on the other hand, Sam, doesn’t want to piss Dean off the second he sees him, again. Sam still remembers, <em>acutely,</em> how pissed Dean got at him the last time they spoke.</p><p>Sam never wants to give Dean another reason to want him gone—<em>ever again.</em></p><p>Dean aptly shoves the remainder of Sam’s things into the suitcase and zips it up, with one swift flick of his wrist.</p><p><em>“I’m</em> <em>tired,</em> Sammy. I can’t handle a round of questions today,” Dean answers.</p><p>Sam detects a very slight quiver in Dean’s tone, but it’s gone almost as quickly as Sam notices it is there in the first place.</p><p>Sam clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms—deep enough to sense <strong>pressure</strong> on his nailbeds.</p><p>“Sorry, De,” Sam whispers in response and fights back a fresh wave of tears.</p><p>All, Sam, seems to be able to do is cry these days—and he <strong>fucking</strong> hates it.</p><p>
  <em>He’s such a goddamned, burden!</em>
</p><p>And he doesn’t want to be that—<em>not for Dean</em>—not ever again.</p><p>So, he keeps quiet and follows Dean back out of Uncle Bobby’s guest room, straight down the stairs and into the back of the Impala.</p><p>Dean sits shotgun up front and Sam quietly straps himself in, deciding not to make a fuss.</p><p><em>Not about anything</em>.</p><p>Dean sits in silence while they wait for Dad to finish up his conversation with Uncle Bobby, so Sammy does, too.</p><p>When, Dad, finally does pull himself away from the ten-odd-minute conversation and hop into the driver’s seat, Sam, fixates on a spot just outside the window and tries to zone out.</p><p>Dad isn’t having <em>that,</em> though.</p><p>“What’s this I hear that you <em>ain’t</em> been eatin,’ Boy?” Dad snaps, with this deep, brutish tone that has Sam’s stomach in tight knots <em>(which may be, in part, from his refusal to eat like Dad said)</em> and his muscles rigid.</p><p>Dean turns his head to look at, Sam,<em> (same as Dad) </em>and Sam—<em>who is sitting in the middle of the Impala’s backseat</em>—can immediately sense the disappointment that both Dad and Dean seem to have geared toward him--<em>in his marrow. </em></p><p>Sam wills himself not to spill tears and digs his nails into his kneecaps for strength. “I c-couldn’t e-eat. I …” Sam looks to Dean for help, but finds the same unreadable expression he got back in the bedroom from Dean, earlier. “I <em>missed</em>, Dean,” Sam mumbles it so low that he wonders if Dad will even hear, but he seems to decipher it, and Dean looks back away.</p><p>Staring straight ahead, <strong>unhelpfully</strong>, out the windshield.</p><p>“That is <strong>unacceptable</strong>, Sam! I raised you <em>better</em> than that! Your Uncle Bobby don’t got money for you to go an’ <strong>waste</strong>, like that!”</p><p>Sam takes his verbal lashing with his head bowed and is barely able to bite back the tears that still threaten to fall at any second.</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, Daddy.” </em>
</p><p>Sam sometimes still lengthens Dad’s title to get a hint of sympathy from him. Sometimes it works—<em>and softens Dad right up</em>—others it has no effect at all.</p><p>Right now, it seems to do the <strong><em>latter</em></strong>.</p><p>“Don’t you be talkin’ <em>sweet</em> to me, Boy! I oughta belt you black and blue!”</p><p>Dean has a reaction to <strong>that</strong>.</p><p>Sam notices Dean’s head perk up and Dean stares over at Dad who looks away. There is a silent exchange between them, but the hell if Sam understands what it could <em>possibly</em> be about.</p><p>Dad eases a little and sighs. “Be grateful I ain’t got the <strong><em>time</em></strong> to deal with you right now. I have to go huntin’ and I need to drop the two of you off, before I do,” Dad remarks, with a bitterness to his tone.</p><p>Dean looks back away from Dad and stares out the window, and Sam follows suit. Staring out of his own.</p><p>“You gonna eat if <strong><em>I </em></strong>spend money on ya, Boy?” Dad asks a few minutes later, when they’re coasting down the road, on toward a new destination that Sam knows nothing about.</p><p>“Yes, <strong>Sir</strong>,” Sam answers, the same way Dean always does, figuring he might as well get used to it, because Dad doesn’t seem to want to <strong><em>act</em></strong> like his dad anymore.</p><p>Case and point, Dad, used to hug him when he hadn’t saw Sam in a while, but <em>(just like Dean)</em> Dad hadn’t, this time.</p><p>Dad stops off at a <em>McDonald’s</em> and purchases them both kid’s meals. Sam eats all of it <em>(which his stomach is no longer used to doing)</em> and doesn’t complain, even though it makes his stomach feel uncomfortably full.</p><p>Sam leaves his <em>‘Back to the Future’</em> toy in the bag, not at all motivated to so-much-as glance at it.</p><p>All Sam can contemplate on the couple hour long drive, is how to make everything up to Dean. Sam still can’t <em>(for the life of him)</em> figure out what he must have done to make Dean so furious with him, but he figures it must have been severe enough to warrant abandonment at Uncle Bobby’s and the silent treatment when Dean finally <em>does</em> come back.</p><p>Sam loses himself to his thoughts and almost doesn’t realize the car has stopped until Dad is already out of the Impala with a slammed door.</p><p>Sam works up the nerve and asks Dean a single question. “Where are we?”</p><p>Dean doesn’t look away from the windshield, his eyes <em>instead</em> stay trained on Dad at the hotel check-in counter, from where he’s standing just inside the lobby.</p><p><em>“Missouri,”</em> Dean answers with a single word that gives nothing away at all for Sammy to ascertain what sort of mood Dean might be in.</p><p>Dean keeps the same <strong><em>bland</em></strong> tone as earlier.</p><p>Sam really wants to ask Dean what’s the matter with him, but he doesn’t want to be a <em>burden</em>. Sam has to keep reminding himself that he can easily be dumped back at Uncle Bobby’s or even Pastor Jim’s in a heartbeat—<em>and Sam doesn’t want <strong>that</strong>.</em></p><p>When, Dad, climbs back into the car with a heave and shuts the door, both Dean and Sam look to him with vacant expressions.</p><p>“I have to go now, Boys,” Dad says, glancing from Sam to Dean and back again. “You be <em>good</em> for your brother, Sam. I don’t want to hear no more about you <strong>refusin’ </strong>good food, are we clear?” Dad demands in his sternest tone to Sam.</p><p>Sam hates the way Dad always talks down to him like he’s a little kid, but he also knows <em>(in this instance, anyway)</em> that he mostly deserves it.</p><p><em>“Yes, Sir.”</em> Sam doesn’t hesitate to agree, making sure his expression is mostly blank and a little contrite.</p><p>“Good.” Dad turns his full attention to Dean next and says, “You call Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim if you need to get ahold of me, Dean.”</p><p>“I <em>know, </em>Dad,” Dean says with a thick swallow that has Sam’s gut turn over.</p><p>So, Dean, <strong><em>does</em></strong> have Uncle Bobby’s phone number. He just really didn’t want to talk to <em>Sam?</em> As much as Sam is trying to keep himself calm and collected—knowing <em>that</em> really cuts deep.</p><p>But Sam keeps his mouth shut, same as he has been since they left Uncle Bobby’s.</p><p>“You still got the <strong>money</strong> I gave you earlier, Dean?” Dad asks and Dean fishes in his pocket and holds up the wadded-up bills.</p><p>“Right here,” Dean responds, stoically—<em>dutifully</em>.</p><p>“Good. It’s <em>room</em> <em>111</em>, here’s the key. You keep outta trouble, too, Dean. I’m trusting you, <em>again</em>. Don’t be giving me no reason to <strong>regret</strong> it,” Dad says with a tight voice and holds up the room-key.</p><p>The look Dean gives Dad when he says the last bit is cold and holds a lot of tension behind it—<em>so thick Sam suddenly feels suffocated just being privy to it</em>—but the moment passes almost as quickly as it comes and Dad’s expression changes back on a dime.</p><p>Dean just says, “I know. You <strong><em>won’t</em></strong> regret it, Sir,” through clenched teeth and snatches up the keys from Dad.</p><p>Without acknowledging the shared look, Dad, starts up the Impala’s engine with a low, scuttle-turned-purr.</p><p>“Go on, hop out and get your things, both of you,” Dad orders and Sam needs no further encouragement to get the hell out of this car <em>(and the uncomfortable situation inside of it)</em> with a slam of the door.</p><p>Sam goes to the trunk, waits for Dad to pop it, and whips out his suitcase and bookbag.</p><p>Dean grips his own things and hoists them out of the trunk, seconds after, and slams it shut with a loud <em>‘clank’</em> that rattles the rear of the Impala.</p><p>Without bothering to glance back, Sam, follows close behind as Dean leads the way towards the outside entrance to their motel room door.</p><p>He waits patiently as Dean turns the lock and grants them both, entrance, holding the door for Sam to walk through, like Dean <em>always</em> does. This has to be the most <strong>normal</strong> gesture Sam’s seen out of Dean all day, but Sam tries not to think too much about it.</p><p>Sam drops off his things by the bed closest to the door and plops down on top. He finds himself anxiously nervous, because he doesn’t know what to <strong>expect</strong> out of Dean anymore.</p><p>Dean was Dad’s <em>‘perfect-little-soldier-robot’</em> for the entire ride here, but now that they are completely alone, Sam, has hope <em>(however slim)</em> that things can go back to some semblance of normal.</p><p>Not that, Sam, actually knows <strong><em>what</em></strong> normal even means for them anymore.</p><p>What, Sam, <strong>does</strong> know is that Dean had Dad yank him out of school in the middle of the afternoon and drive him a hundred-or-so, odd miles to be dumped at Uncle Bobby’s house, <em>sixty-four</em> days ago, back in early February and it is now <em>early</em> <strong><em>April</em></strong>—a little over a month away from Sam’s birthday.</p><p>Normal, used to be Dean wrapping him up in tight hugs if he so much as <em>‘looked’</em> upset, and now, normal, is apparently not even offering him a simple hug after <strong>months</strong> apart, when previously, Sam, had never been away from Dean for even a <em>single</em> day.</p><p>Everything feels upside down and topsy-turvy—<em>and Sam can’t cope.</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t say anything to Sam—not a <strong>damned</strong> thing. All Dean seems to care about is checking <em>(and double-checking)</em> the locks on the door and putting down salt at the windows and entryway, before he heads straight for the far bed that is <em>(usually)</em> reserved for Dad and starts to unpack his precious Colt and a shotgun, along with all of the non-perishable groceries he also has inside.</p><p>Sam watches in <em>bafflement</em>—then, his heart suddenly sinks in realization.</p><p>“That’s <em>Dad’s</em> bed,” Sam says—<em>more-like whispers.</em></p><p>“Dad isn’t <strong>here</strong>,” Dean retorts, with the same stoniness that makes Sam want to crawl in a hole and stay there, <em>forever</em>.</p><p>Sam clenches his hands into tight fists and climbs to his feet. Without a second of thought, he heads into the bathroom and closes the door.</p><p>Locking it with a <em>‘click.’</em></p><p>Everything feels so fucking off that it isn’t even remotely funny. Sam, can’t riddle out why Dean is acting so differently, or what he has done to deserve Dean treating him like this.</p><p>Sam ultimately realizes that he is going to be sick, <em>seconds</em> before it happens. He somehow manages to make it to the toilet, before he loses the entire contents of his <em>‘Happy Meal’ </em>down the drain.</p><p>Coughing and retching, Sam, finally let’s go of the tears he has been holding in since Uncle Bobby’s house. They just pour down his cheeks in a steady stream until he is sniffling and choking on them—<em>bitterly.</em></p><p>Sam barely has the toilet flushed and his back against the nearest wall in a seated, <em>knees-tucked-to-chest </em>position, before Dean is knocking on the door, the first bit of concern <em>(all-day)</em> in his voice.</p><p>“You <strong>okay</strong> in there, Sammy?”</p><p>Dean might as well have ripped out his heart and stomped on it.</p><p>Is he <strong>okay</strong>?</p><p>
  <em>Is Dean fucking serious?</em>
</p><p>Sam can barely breathe; he has worked himself into such a state and he has to drive his nails into his knees to ground himself enough to talk <em>(semi-without-sounding like he’s crying)</em> right now.</p><p>“Go <strong>away</strong>, Dean!” Sam answers through the ache in his gut and the extensive pain in his chest.</p><p>Dean doesn’t say anything—and Sam doesn’t think he is <strong><em>going</em></strong> to say anything—but eventually, Dean, <strong><em>does</em></strong>.</p><p>“Open the <strong>door</strong>, Sam,” Dean poses it like one of Dad’s orders and something about the <em>dry</em> tone makes Sam want to rebel—<em>so he does.</em></p><p>“Why should I, <em>huh?</em> You gonna call Dad and have him take me <strong>away</strong> again, if I don’t?” Sam retorts and it comes from a place of pain, but also a very real place of <strong><em>fear</em></strong>, consecutively.</p><p>Dean has all the cards and <strong><em>all</em></strong> the power—Sam only has <em>himself</em> to blame for being selfish all the time, but everything that has happened, still hurt like hell.</p><p>“I am <strong>not</strong> going to call anyone, Sam. <em>Please</em> open the door …” Dean lowers his tone and sounds more defeated than angry, now.</p><p>Sam wants to open the door, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to face <strong><em>another</em></strong> sleepless night in a foreign bed without Dean there to comfort him.</p><p>Sam is just <strong><em>tired</em></strong>. Tired and riddled with depression—<em>and lonely.</em> He never would have believed three months ago that he could <strong><em>ever</em></strong> be lonely with Dean close-by, but here they are.</p><p>“I don’t <strong>believe</strong> you,” Sam answers, finally, and that is the truth.</p><p>Sam <strong><em>doesn’t</em></strong> believe Dean.</p><p>The Dean that is standing just outside this bathroom, isn’t the same one that used to comfort and hold him close every night before bed and gently touch his skin. Nor is he the same Dean that read him bedtime stories and taught him to <strong>spell</strong> and <em>count</em>.</p><p>This Dean is a <strong>foreign</strong>, <em>separate</em> entity from <strong><em>his</em></strong> Dean.</p><p>A pale reflection—<strong><em>at best.</em></strong></p><p>Sam hears a thud on the door and realizes it must have been Dean’s <em>closed</em> <em>fist</em> against the wood.</p><p>“Fine, Sam. <strong><em>Stay</em></strong> in the bathroom, then. I’m going to bed,” Dean answers him and the stoniness is back in place, same as before.</p><p>“Fine! I <strong>will</strong>!” Sam yells back and means it.</p><p>The shadows of Dean’s feet under the door move away and Sam listens to the sound of Dean rustling things before the light clicks off next to Dean’s bed.</p><p>Dean really <strong><em>meant</em></strong> it—Sam realizes Dean is <strong><em>actually</em></strong> going to bed.</p><p>Jealousy courses through Sam’s center as he pictures Dean sleeping <strong>peacefully</strong> on his own these past months. It isn’t fair that Dean can choose to sleep alone <em>(contently) </em>while Sam is climbing the walls every night that he has to do the same, <em>(and suffer alone) </em>because he <strong>can’t</strong> just close his eyes and find sleep.</p><p>
  <em>It’s impossible.</em>
</p><p>Life in general has been impossible for Sam without Dean present to help him navigate it, all.</p><p>And now that Dean is back—Sam still feels as alone as he was at Uncle Bobby’s.</p><p>Through a fresh wave of tears, Sam, curls up in the fetal position on the harsh, unforgiving bathroom tile and cries until his mind takes over and forces him to sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bags linger under Sam’s eyes from last nights, piss-poor, sleep on the unforgiving, bathroom tile, and he feels completely lost as he trails alongside, Dean, down the sidewalk <em>(in utter silence) </em>on their way toward their new school.</p><p>It is a school day—<em>but the hell if Sam knows the actual day of the week</em>—and Dad apparently enrolled them both in this brand-new school, yesterday, sometime, before Dad drove with Dean to pick him up.</p><p>That is the <em>most</em> Sam could talk out of Dean this morning before they left the motel.</p><p>Sam had woken up to Dean banging on the door, needing to take a piss, and also waking him up for school simultaneously.</p><p>He doesn’t particularly <em>want</em> to go to school, today, but it is either that or mope around the motel room and that would be so much worse.</p><p>So much more <em>depressing</em>, somehow.</p><p>The silence they are walking in, is making Sam crazy—<em>in fact</em>—it’s making him want to shake Dean and scream at him, because not knowing <em>why</em> he was dumped at Uncle Bobby’s is eating him alive, inside.</p><p>All, he, has is his own brain to work out the <strong><em>why</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Why he’s a mess … <em>why</em> he’s disgusting … and why he is no longer <em>loved</em> by Dean. What possibly changed overnight, nearly <em>three</em> months ago?</p><p>Sam decides to open his mouth and try—<em>it is all he can do</em>—and maybe this time he’ll get some kind of response that is valid.</p><p>“What did I <em>do</em>, Dean?” Sam asks, looking up at his big brother, ready to decipher whatever <strong><em>response</em></strong> he can trigger out of him—<em>no matter how meager.</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t stop walking but he shoots Sam a strange <em>(indecipherable)</em> look, before staring straight, back ahead.</p><p>“What are you talking about, Sam?”</p><p>Sinking his teeth into his lowermost lip, Sam’s belly, does a flip.</p><p>“I must have done, <em>something</em>. I just wanna know what it was …” Sam tries to purvey his thoughts <strong><em>without</em></strong> hounding Dean about it. It isn’t easy for him to only ask one question at a time, <em>(that sort of restraint has never been easy for him)</em> but Sam wants to <em>understand</em>—he <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to.</p><p>“Look, Sam, I have a <em>headache</em>, alright?” Dean answers, and Sam can tell he’s withholding something, but can’t be sure about what it is, and it’s frustrating as hell for him. “I don’t <strong>want</strong> to talk right now.”</p><p>Sam tries to mask the <em>excruciating</em> stab of unpleasantness that jabs and shreds about at his insides, from showing up on his face, by sinking his nails—<em>hard</em>—into the sides of his legs, <em>through</em> his jeans, as he walks.</p><p>Every time, Dean, brushes him off, the pain only <em>mounts</em> and burns Sam deeper. Pretty soon, Sam, knows that he isn’t gonna be able to handle this pressure and it’s <strong><em>not</em></strong> going to be pretty.</p><p>But for <em>now</em>, he <strong>bears</strong> it.</p><p>Because, what else <strong><em>can</em></strong> he do?</p><p>“Fine. <em>Whatever</em>,” Sam responds, icily and turns his head frontward, not so much as looking back at Dean, again.</p><p>Dean must have heard the implied frustration, though, because he speaks back up.</p><p>“We’ll talk <em>later</em>, Sammy, alright?” Dean says and Sam senses that it’s just Dean’s way of trying to placate him—like it’s a necessary act that Dean <strong><em>must</em></strong> partake in. Not one he actually <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to do.</p><p>That makes Sam lash out even more.</p><p>“Forget it, Dean! I don’t <strong><em>want</em></strong> to talk to you, anyway!”</p><p>Dean glances back down at him<em>. “Sam—”</em></p><p>“No, Dean! I shouldn’t have said <strong>anything</strong>. I should have just kept my damn mouth <em>shut!</em> I won’t make the mistake of <strong>trying</strong>, again!”</p><p>The look Dean shoots him isn’t a normal <em>‘closed-off Winchester’</em> kind of look, it’s almost twisted with something else, foreign to Sam, and even though it makes Sam <em>uneasy</em>, he doesn’t try to question it.</p><p>He’s, too, fucking <strong><em>mad</em></strong> right now!</p><p>“Fine, Sam! That’s <strong>fine</strong> with me!” Dean lashes back at him while rubbing his temples, stimulating the skin, causing Sam to ponder if Dean actually <strong><em>does</em></strong> have a headache.</p><p>They have nearly reached the school, now. Sam can see it there, just up ahead. It’s a bricked, reddish-brown structure with a sign and a flag out front. And even though Sam is in no hurry to jump into a new school, with new people, anything has to be better than <strong><em>this</em></strong>.</p><p>Walking in silence, next to Dean. Unable to <strong><em>touch</em></strong> him—<em>unable to communicate with him</em>—unable to do a <strong><em>goddamned</em></strong> thing!</p><p>“I <strong><em>bet</em></strong> it is!” Sam hisses as a final attempt at cutting Dean to the quick, same as Dean did to him, before he storms off, up the stairs and through the school, front doors, before Dean can stop him.</p><p>Pretending not to hear, Dean, calling after him as he goes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It isn’t just that night that, Sam, doesn’t speak to Dean—<strong><em>No</em></strong>—Sam keeps it up for an entire <strong><em>week</em></strong>.</p><p>It isn’t fair <em>(in Sam’s mind)</em> that Dean just cut him out of his life, like he was just some <em>worthless</em> piece of trash, for close to three months without <strong><em>any</em></strong> explanation, whatsoever, only for Dean to turn around and swoop him back up <em>(Dad-in-toe)</em> only when it was convenient for <em>Dean!</em></p><p>Dean has been unimaginably cruel to him <em>(unreasonably so)</em> and Dean’s behavior has driven him to the conclusion that he shouldn’t have to take any of this shit, lying down.</p><p>So, Sam, spent the last week skipping meals and giving Dean the silent treatment.</p><p>It doesn’t make the ache that now lives inside of him any easier to withstand, but it does, <em>however</em>, seem to really piss off and <em>bother</em>, Dean, no end.</p><p>So, at least that is <strong><em>something</em></strong>.</p><p>This is the only way he can see to get a reaction out of Dean—<em>any reaction.</em></p><p>Just, yesterday<em>, (Thursday)</em> Sam, refused to eat the dinner Dean prepared for him <em>(Mac N’ Cheese, heated in the motel microwave)</em> at all. In fact, Sam, had stopped doing his homework, stood from the tiny table, walked over to the trashcan, and dumped it out while looking Dean <strong>dead</strong> in the eye. Then, returned to his homework as though nothing had happened in the first place.</p><p>The look on Dean’s face had been <strong><em>priceless</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean had yelled and threatened, but Sam had just ignored him. Finishing up his homework and pretending not to hear anything at all.</p><p>Afterwards, Dean, had spent the better part of an hour in the bathroom with the shower running. Sam, didn’t bother himself with the why of <em>that</em>, either.</p><p>What was the point? Dean still had yet to so much as provide a simple apology for fucking <em>abandoning</em> him like literal trash, so why should Sam be <em>courteous</em> to Dean?</p><p>Why make this <strong><em>easy</em></strong> on <em>him?</em></p><p>If Dean is gonna send him back to Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim, eventually, then the way Sam sees it, it might as well happen <em>sooner</em>, rather than <strong>later</strong>. At least that way he doesn’t have the opportunity to get his hopes up.</p><p>Sam has decided that he’s never going to allow his guard down, again. Dean lied to him when he promised they were <strong><em>always</em></strong> gonna be together, and actually made Sam believe once, that they would <em>always</em> be as close as two beings could ever be.</p><p>He doesn’t believe such <strong>nonsense</strong>, anymore.</p><p>Dean broke <strong>that</strong> in him.</p><p>Sam’s only meals this week came from school and he picked at his tray, mostly. But it is the <strong>only</strong> food <em>(currently)</em> keeping him alive and that’s alright with him. He’s trained himself not to eat much anyway. He doesn’t even <em>feel</em> all that hungry most of the time, anymore.</p><p>Even though Dean reacts to Sam and his refusal to speak, even one syllable, Sam, has noticed that even those reactions are carefully concealed, possibly <em>controlled</em>. Dean has become scary-good at being immune to Sam and that hurts <em>(more than Sam would ever admit)</em> because he used to give Dean a puppy-pout and get his way.</p><p>Something tells, Sam, that that would now be <strong>impossible</strong>.</p><p>Nighttime is the worst. Sam lies in his bed <em>(alone)</em> while Dean sleeps in Dad’s and Dean doesn’t even tuck him in. Dean hasn’t even tried—<em>once</em>—to read him a bedtime story or touch the ache-laden spaces underneath Sam’s layers of clothes.</p><p>The hurt that spreads in him from Dean behaving coldly towards him is also why Sam chose the silent treatment over having a conversation.</p><p>It’s just <em>easier</em>—and the only way Sam can think of to prevent his mind from cracking apart exponentially faster than it is already.</p><p>Currently, Sam, is scribbling answers down to his homework, while, Dean, sits on the bed that usually would-be Dad’s, with his Colt. Wiping down the metal with a special cloth and checking it ten times over.</p><p>This must be the <em>tenth</em> time Dean has wiped it down in the last hour. Dean has also checked the salt lines three times and the window-locks, twice.</p><p>This behavior also seems to be a new habit of, Dean’s, picked up while Sam was at Uncle Bobby’s. It is unnerving to him but he tries to ignore it.</p><p>Like he’s taken up ignoring <em>everything</em> Dean does.</p><p>Sam finishes the remainder of his homework, rounds up the papers, and tucks them all into his backpack.</p><p>Dean <em>(having finished his gun cleaning)</em> shoves the thoroughly gleaming thing, back under his pillow—<em>another habit Dean never had before.</em></p><p>Dean used to keep his gun in close range <em>(cause ‘you never know when you might need it’ </em>Dean used to say<em>)</em> but never tuck it under his pillow.</p><p>Sam allows his eyes to linger a fraction of a second too long and his forest-green eyes meet Dean’s—and Sam snaps his head back away. Training his eyes down on the table, following the lines in the wood.</p><p>Dean sighs, squeezing his eyes for a second, then seems to make a decision and approaches, Sam, crouching down beside his chair.</p><p>“Look, Sammy, you can choose to hate me. I guess I deserve <em>that</em>, but … I need you start eating again, alright? Even if it is just a little bit of what I <strong>make</strong> for you. I need you to <em>try</em>, Sam<em>, okay?” </em>Dean’s tone doesn’t sound harsh or angry, it just sounds flat-out <strong>defeated</strong>.</p><p>Sam doesn’t know what to make of this sudden 360 degree turn from Dean. He doesn’t know what to make of anything Dean has done since their reunion, though.</p><p>Being talked down to, like he’s just a stubborn kid does anger Sam though. And he finally decides his anger is <strong><em>worth</em></strong> expressing in words, not just passive-aggressive <em>actions</em>.</p><p>“Like you <em>actually</em> care,” Sam half-laughs out loud while saying it. Dean used to give him hugs and kisses and tell him that he was loved and <em>‘precious’</em> but now, Dean, can’t even stand to give him a simple hug.</p><p>Yet, Sam, is expected to believe that Dean gives a shit whether he dies from <strong>starvation</strong> or not?</p><p>Sure. That makes <strong><em>perfect</em></strong> sense.</p><p>Dean gives him a puzzled <em>(yet somewhat grateful) </em>expression at the same time.</p><p>“Sam, don’t be like this, okay? Of course, I <strong>care</strong>. All I <em>do</em> is care …” Dean says it in a weird pitch that has Sam trying to make sense of Dean’s behavior over the course of the past week.</p><p>He also has to fight back another wave of laughter, in order to prevent himself from bursting into outright hysterics—<em>which would ultimately turn to tears.</em></p><p>And Sam doesn’t want to cry—<em>he won’t</em>—because Dean already thinks he is a needy brat and he won’t go proving it to him.</p><p>“You don’t, Dean,” Sam clenches his nails into his kneecaps, “You don’t give a <strong><em>shit</em></strong> about me! So, stop <strong>pretending</strong> like you do, <strong><em>okay</em></strong><em>?”</em> Sam finishes with the same condescending <em>‘okay’</em> that Dean first used on <em>him</em>.</p><p>The look on Dean’s face goes from unreadable to tortured in a second and that perfect <em>‘soldier-like barrier,’</em> that Dean has been putting up for a straight week starts to crumble.</p><p>“Sammy …” Dean reaches out and cups Sam’s cheek in the palm of his hand, giving the tenderest of brushes to the pale and haggard flesh.</p><p>That small trace of contact riles up Sam’s desperate skin. It makes him tingle and squeeze <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong>, all-underneath the surface of his epidermis. It almost <em>melts</em> him instantaneously into a hot, needy mess, especially when Dean uses his spare hand to stroke along the flat-edge of his waist just over his shirt.</p><p>
  <em>God! This isn’t fair!</em>
</p><p>Sam realizes what Dean is doing and he hurries to his feet, slapping Dean’s hands away as fast as he can.</p><p>Heart still racing with all <em>erratic-ness</em>, and breathing shallow and raspy from lack of sleep and nutrition, Sam, backs himself against the nearby wall—<em>knocking the chair over with a clatter in his haste.</em></p><p>“Go to <strong><em>hell</em></strong>, Dean!” Sam shouts with a furious temper in his eyes. “You go <strong>straight</strong> to hell! You don’t get to just … <em>just do that!”</em></p><p>Dean is still wearing that same tortured look and stares down at his hands.</p><p>(And Sam <strong>swears</strong> that he hears Dean whisper <em>‘I’m already there, Sammy,’</em> but he can’t be sure because it’s so broken up and small that it could be Sam’s imagination playing tricks.)</p><p>Dean then tilts his chin back up and stares at Sam for a second, before Dean shakes his head <em>(as though to clear it or something)</em> then snaps back out of himself.</p><p>“Shit … I’m <strong><em>sorry</em></strong>, Sam. I shouldn’t have <strong>done</strong> that …” Dean admits and Sam no longer knows what is worse—<em>being touched out of the <strong>blue</strong> by Dean the way he used to be</em>—or having Dean actually <strong>apologize</strong> for touching him the way he <strong><em>used</em></strong> to.</p><p>Both things feel equally <strong>gross</strong> to Sam.</p><p>“Done what, Dean?! Done what, <em>exactly?!”</em> Sam screams at him, suddenly blind from the onset of fresh, salty tears.</p><p><em>“Touched you, Sammy …”</em> Dean clenches his hands into fists that tremble and shake in front of him.</p><p>Sam resists the urge to <strong><em>punch</em></strong> Dean. He resists every damn impulse inside of him that <em>screams</em> to make Dean fucking <em>hurt!</em> Not just hurt—<em>feel as shitty and as rotten as he, himself, does.</em></p><p>Because Dean has made him feel like <strong>shit</strong>. Like he’s useless, worthless, and like he’s <strong><em>wrong</em></strong>.</p><p>Like everything he says and does is <strong><em>wrong</em></strong>.</p><p>This is probably all building and broiling inside of Sam because of his lack of sleep these past few months. It is probably also <strong><em>close</em></strong> to the fragile, tipping point, because of the repeatedly-skipped meals—but it’s there <em>(first and foremost)</em> because Dean <strong>won’t</strong> touch him.</p><p>Because Dean <strong><em>refuses</em></strong> to let Sam sleep with him—because Dean fucking <strong><em>abandoned</em></strong> him!</p><p>That is, it—that is, <strong><em>all!</em></strong></p><p>If Dean hadn’t called Dad and sent Sam to Uncle Bobby’s, then Sam wouldn’t be fucking <strong>broken</strong> right now! He wouldn’t feel gross—<em>and like a burden</em>—and like no matter how he reacts or what he does, that he’s going to do something <strong>fucking</strong> wrong!</p><p>And that is what makes Sam <em>finally</em> lose it!</p><p>The clenching of his nails into his hands, has caused blood to draw, but it still isn’t enough to persuade Sam against what’s coming—<em>what’s about to <strong>burst</strong>.</em></p><p>“That’s it, isn’t it?!” Sam roars at the top of his lungs.</p><p>Dean stares back up at him, evidently startled.</p><p><em>“What?”</em> Dean breathes.</p><p>“You didn’t want to <em>have</em> to touch me, anymore, right?! I mean you started fucking locking the door to the bathroom, ranting about privacy and needing space! Then it was making me promise not to tell Dad on you, because of <em>whatever</em> that was on the couch!”</p><p>Dean’s mouth gapes in all-time horror and he looks struck-dumb but Sam doesn’t care, he just keeps going, getting more and more <strong><em>furious</em></strong> as he goes.</p><p>“Then! Then out of <strong>nowhere</strong> you make me feel good! Not just good, fucking loved and cherished by touching my private part! Then you never talk about it! Because you never talk about <strong>anything</strong>! <em>Ever!</em> Because why should you? Why should you ever <strong><em>have</em></strong> to?!” Sam inches closer to Dean, still shouting at him, completely out of his right mind right now.</p><p>“Then, the <strong><em>ultimate</em></strong> way to avoid touching me! Having Dad dump me at Uncle Bobby’s, which was an all-time <strong>low</strong>, even for you, Dean! Because I thought you meant every <strong>single</strong> word of what you said! I thought you really <em>meant</em> to take care of me, forever! I thought you <strong>wanted</strong> me there when you slept, but even that was <em>never</em> true! Since we’re together now and you <strong><em>still</em></strong> would rather sleep alone!”</p><p>Sam lost the point somewhere in his rantings, but the most <strong>important</strong> thing is that his words are torturing the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> out of Dean!</p><p>The look on Dean’s face is one of pure, unadulterated horror—and that can’t be masked, nor faked. Not <strong><em>this</em></strong> good.</p><p>Sam stands right in front of Dean, face-to-face with inches between them and says the last of it. “You haven’t even <em>hugged</em> me, once. All you have done is <strong>snap</strong> at me … tell me what a goddamned <strong>burden</strong> I am for you, Dean. Now … now you turn around and say that you <em>care?</em> You care?! Really? Cause I can’t figure out how, that can be. There’s no <strong>love</strong> in your eyes, anymore, Dean. Only <strong>nothingness</strong>. <em>Empty. Disgusted. Nothingness.”</em></p><p>Sam shoves Dean, as hard as he can—<em>and Dean tumbles and falls with a crash to the hotel carpet.</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t even try to catch himself. He just lays there in a lump of flesh and bone, and curls up into a fetal-position-ball, starting to sob.</p><p>It’s baffling—<em>and it gives Sam pause</em>—because Sam has never seen Dean act like this before. Dean is always the strong one between them—<em>always.</em></p><p>He doesn’t know what to <strong><em>make</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Eventually, Sam, snaps out his bafflement. Stalks to the bathroom and slams the door, not bothering with the lock.</p><p>Sam just climbs into the bathtub, curls up—<em>and cries alone.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xii. caught up in the sickness &amp; twist.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dad was telling the truth when he promised that he would return to Dean in a week’s time.</p><p>Whatever monster, Dad, had been hunting was slain in that period and Dean had been fully packed and ready to hit the road, when Dad came for him.</p><p>The last of Dad’s pain pills were used up and Dean had been forcibly sober for the last two days of the full seven—<em>and having all the time in the world had set Dean up for devastation.</em></p><p>Sammy was at Bobby’s and though Dean had tried <em>(once) </em>to reach Sam there, the line had been <strong>disconnected</strong>.</p><p>The number Dad had remanded to Dean to memorize a year or so ago, is null and void.</p><p>It just went straight to a lady’s voice talking about the number being disconnected and un-dialable.</p><p>It was the final nail in the ever-sinking coffin that had quickly been becoming Dean’s heart.</p><p>There was empty, hollow expanse—<em>as far as the eye could see</em>—that lingered inside of Dean and plucked at his insides. Without, Sammy, Dean, lost all ability to function, like he did before.</p><p>Replaying the deviant acts of, Jake, over and over again in his mind, Dean, could only suffer in his silence and wait for Dad to come back. Dean chipped away at his already fragile psyche, while also telling himself repeatedly that he <strong><em>had</em></strong> to be strong.</p><p>Strong enough to force every conceivable emotion aside and <em>wait</em> for Dad to come.</p><p>Dean’s mind might not have <strong>repaired</strong> without the warmth of his Sammy at his side, but Dean’s mind <em>always</em> forced him into sleep—whether he wanted to sleep, or not. And his skin prickled like <strong><em>death</em></strong>—whether he thought about Jake abusing and ruining it, or not.</p><p>For that <strong>lonely</strong> week, Dean, thought about Sam. He thought about how he was going to survive this time away from him—and most of all, Dean, thought about how much he despised Dad for what he did.</p><p>Dean, climbs into the Impala when Dad comes for him and he can see the expression written on his face.</p><p>Dad is slightly drunk, but also stony-eyed. Well prepared for any and all of Dean’s tactics.</p><p>“You doin’ <strong><em>better</em></strong>, Son?” Dad asks him, with a sideways glance.</p><p>“What do <strong><em>you</em></strong> think?” Dean purposefully leaves off the <em>‘Sir’ </em>at the end, but also tries to show as little emotion in his own forest-green eyes, as he can.</p><p>Dad says nothing at all to Dean’s remark, and they drive away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The last place, Dean, expects Dad to take him is on a hunting trip—<em>but that is precisely what he does.</em></p><p>It’s the very first that Dean has ever been allowed on one and he can’t help but wonder, <em>why, now?</em></p><p>Why Dad thinks a hunting trip is going to take his mind off of Sammy. Hell, Dean, wonders why Dad seems to think that he would ever <strong>forgive</strong> him for taking away the <em>one</em> person that could have repaired the fractures in his heart and mind—<em>but he knows if he were to ask, Dad, wouldn’t answer.</em></p><p>Dad has never been one to answer him straight—<em>about anything.</em></p><p>Surprisingly, though, Dean, doesn’t have to ask, because Dad answers without being asked.</p><p>“This one ain’t gonna be <strong>difficult</strong>, Son. That’s why I brought you, along,” Dad says, five days after he picked Dean up from the hotel.</p><p>Dad has been staying with Dean every night at the new hotel, <em>with</em> him. Just like, Dean, had always hoped he’d do, back when Dean first asked to stay in motels with Sammy and Dad, <em>three years ago.</em></p><p>Dean has his Colt tucked in the back waistband of his jeans and his hands folded in his lap, cinched tight together.</p><p>Without pain medicine, Dean, has suffered through days of endless pain <em>(he still hasn’t fully recovered from what Jake did to him) </em>and without Sammy nearby, the <strong>psychological</strong> trauma of being separated from him, has left Dean to suffer nightmares of the <strong>worst</strong> imaginable kind.</p><p>Not that Dean would <strong><em>ever</em></strong> let Dad in on that tidbit.</p><p>And though Dad slept in the hotel room <em>(for the last five days)</em> in a <strong>separate</strong> bed from Dean, the nightmares are <em>still</em> persistent and unbearable.</p><p>Food barely stays down for Dean <em>(from constant worry about Sam)</em> and there are bags under his eyes. But, Dean, is working on making himself a stone-wall, <em>like Dad.</em></p><p>It is his <strong>only</strong> defense, his only way of making certain this magnitude of pain can <strong>never</strong> be thrust on him <em>(by Dad)</em> ever again.</p><p>Dean wants to be <strong><em>worthy</em></strong> of taking care of Sammy. He wants Dad to <em>trust</em> him, again. Like he did, before. And a show of strength is the <strong>only</strong> way, Dean, knows how to get through to Dad. Sometimes, all it takes to keep his emotions deep down inside, is to make a cut through his flesh, to draw blood and pain out of where it lingers, inside—<em>fleshing it out on the surface.</em></p><p>Other times, Dean, <strong>pinches</strong> his skin, hard enough to remind himself that he’s <em>tainted</em> goods. That Sammy will <strong>hate</strong> him <em>(whenever he can get him back that is)</em> and that things need to change.</p><p>Dean needs to be <strong><em>independent</em></strong>.</p><p>For <em>Sammy’s</em> sake.</p><p>“What are we <strong>dealing</strong> with?” Dean asks, trying to keep his tone even.</p><p>Dad pulls the keys from the ignition and steps out of the car. Dean, follows suit and heads to the trunk, where Dad keeps all the weapons, tucked safely within the secret compartment.</p><p>“It’s a simple haunting, Son. I gotta salt and burn the bones, that’s it. I just need you with the shotgun on the lookout for this <strong>thing</strong> in case it appears.”</p><p>Dean takes the shotgun Dad hands him and nods his head.</p><p>“Understood, Sir,” he forces out the words, even though he wants nothing more than to go back to the hotel and stay there.</p><p>Despite what Dean wants—he follows Dad toward the cemetery, and does as he’s told, without question.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As the weeks wear on, Dean, doesn’t beg Dad for a <strong>single</strong> thing.</p><p>Not for news about, Sammy, or for touch to his sore, aching skin—<em>not for a <strong>damn</strong> thing.</em></p><p>Sometimes, Dean, goes to school, sometimes he doesn’t. Depends on how long Dad stays with him in a specific town.</p><p>The most <em>damning</em> thing—is that Dad is with him, almost every <strong>single</strong> day.</p><p>Which, Dean, knows means that Dad doesn’t trust that Dean won’t do something stupid.</p><p>Dean hates that Dad doesn’t trust him by now.</p><p>
  <em>How much more can he do to prove his worth?</em>
</p><p>This is the longest he’s ever been separated from Sammy but he hasn’t complained, <em>once</em>. That oughta’ count for something—<strong><em>anything</em></strong>—but Dad never mentions it.</p><p>Dean would lock himself in the motel bathroom and cry under the shower-stream until he was able to compose himself, again, whenever shit got bad in his head, <em>(enough to go back to his <strong>own</strong> bed and not crawl into Dad’s for a little body heat and comfort) </em>instead, Dean suffered through his unimaginable hurt and betrayal all on his own.</p><p>Why, Dad, thought <strong><em>this</em></strong> path was healthier for Dean, he’ll never know, but if anything, it made him the far more perfect <em>(stoic)</em> soldier.</p><p>Sometimes—<em>on Dean’s worst nights</em>—he would dream of Sammy. Stealing touches—<em>stealing kisses</em>—with Sammy in their shared bed and wake up with drenched boxers and an aching cock. The shame that he’d awaken to, was outright <strong><em>damnable</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean would sneak into the bathroom, wash the seed out of his boxers, and pray Dad wouldn’t notice whenever he checked the laundry bag, next.</p><p>Somewhere, along the way, Dean, decided that when he finally <strong><em>did</em></strong> get Sammy back, things were gonna be <strong>different</strong>. It was Dean’s hope that Sam learned while they were apart to sleep <strong>without</strong> a body next to him—to no longer crave the touches Dean <strong><em>taught</em></strong> him to need.</p><p>Dean hoped against all <strong><em>conceivable</em></strong> hope, that Sam was coping without him—<em>better off without him.</em></p><p>It would hurt to be near Sammy and not give him what he <strong>used</strong> to, but at least Dad wouldn’t ever find out just how inappropriate things really came to be, between them. One thing, Dean, knew for certain was that Dad would send Sam away <em>(somewhere Dean could never hope to find)</em> if he ever came into the knowledge of the night Dean gave Sammy <strong>pleasure</strong>.</p><p>That would be the tail-end of <em>everything</em>.</p><p>And Sammy <strong>needs</strong> him. Dean <em>knows</em> that Sammy needs Dean to look out for him. Or, he used to, <em>anyway</em>.</p><p>Dean often wonders just how independent Sam is becoming without Dean nearby.</p><p>It was—<em>is</em>—the only thing getting him through the separation.</p><p>The only thing that is making him ready and able to shut himself down <em>(completely) </em>and block out every ounce of mindful torture Dean can muster.</p><p>Dean has also been biding his time. Waiting for the <em>perfect</em> opportunity to convince Dad to, once again, trust him with the hefty responsibility of raising Sammy.</p><p>And after more than the <strong>two <em>whole</em> months</strong>, Dad, had promised that he would have to wait, that opportunity presented itself—<em>front and center.</em></p><p>Dad has spent a good chunk of the night, taking down glass after glass of whiskey—eventually taking sips right out of the bottle itself. From what Dean was able to persuade out of him, a fellow hunter <em>(and one of Dad’s friends)</em> had died.</p><p>Dad just found out from Paster Jim, tonight.</p><p>Werewolf got him, <em>apparently</em>.</p><p>Dean has watched, Dad, for hours sitting at the table in their motel room, pouring drinks and sitting with his <em>private</em> thoughts.</p><p>Dean has spent that time, cleaning his gun and polishing his knife, <em>repeatedly</em>. The task helps keep Dean’s mind off the things he would much rather <strong><em>forget</em></strong>. There is just something in the repetitiveness of the movements and the weight in the palm of his hand.</p><p>And cleaning weapons is the least conspicuous thing for Dean to partake in around Dad. Dad probably just thinks that he is over-diligent, or something.</p><p>Dad has no concept of how <em>near</em> to breaking down, Dean, is whenever he does this.</p><p>“Come over here, Boy,” Dad says with such conviction in his tone, that it gives Dean pause.</p><p>Just for a second, before Dean remembers himself and puts down his knife. Resting it carefully on his bed, he crosses the room to stand alongside Dad.</p><p>Dad looks tired and defeated—there are thin, worn lines on his face and a downturned expression on his mouth.</p><p>“Did you <em>need</em> something, Sir?” Dean has to force out the words. His stomach is in consecutive knots and he is waiting for Dad to make some kind of move.</p><p>Dad always <em>does</em> when he is this deep in the drink. Whether it will be a <em>beating</em> or a <strong>touch</strong> … Dean doesn’t yet know.</p><p>Downing another sip of whiskey, Dad, looks to Dean with a half-lidded expression.</p><p>“How are you <em>feeling</em>, Dean? An’ I want an <strong>honest</strong> answer,” Dad asks, with this <em>‘no-nonsense’</em> tone that has Dean’s stomach churn deeper—<em>because this is it.</em></p><p>This will define whether or not, he can <em>(finally!)</em> get Sammy back.</p><p>“I am doing just <em>fine</em>, Sir. I really think it would be beneficial if you went back to hunting <strong>without</strong> taking me and we go and get, Sammy.” Dean hasn’t brought up Sammy—<em>not once</em>—since Dad stormed out and took Sammy away.</p><p>Not since, Dad, virtually told him that he didn’t <strong><em>deserve</em></strong> Sammy.</p><p>Dad narrows his eyes and makes a little scoff in his throat, with a shake of his head. Then, stands up from his chair and rubs the two-day stubble at his jaw.</p><p>“You think I ain’t got eyes an’ ears, Boy? Huh?” Dad snaps with this dangerous, gravel in his voice that makes Dean’s insides wrench with <em>pits</em> <em>all over.</em></p><p>“W-What?” Dean is thrown off-kilter, because he thought he did <strong>good</strong>. That, Dad, would have seen how <em>good</em> he’s been—<em>how absolutely perfect.</em></p><p>Dean can’t work out just where he could have <strong><em>possibly</em></strong> gone wrong.</p><p>“I didn’t ask you that question for you to go an’ <em>lie</em>. I asked you, Dean, to see if you’d tell the <strong><em>truth</em></strong>. The honest to <strong><em>God</em></strong>, truth of it,” Dad explains and Dean’s heart sinks as he realizes his tremendous error.</p><p>It is a lie, but not one he ever would have thought Dad would see through. He has hidden his thoughts as well as can be expected. Kept his pain deep in his mind, in places he never allows himself to venture, in order to bear it all.</p><p>Because, if Dean actually had to <strong><em>cope</em></strong> with the loss of Sammy?</p><p>That would be the end—<em>he’d break and he’d never come back from that.</em></p><p>Dean sacrificed the <em>last</em> of his dignity to make sure Sammy wouldn’t starve and Dad took that sacrifice and made it pointless. Made it so that Dean honestly <em>believes</em> in his heart, that nothing he could ever do, is ever going to be worthy or good enough for Sammy.</p><p>Dean can do nothing else, right now, but to stand with the lie—<em>to try like hell to sell it</em>—whatever it takes.</p><p>“I didn’t <strong><em>lie</em></strong>, Sir,” Dean says with as much conviction as he can muster up, in this moment.</p><p>Dad drags his hand to the back of his neck and rubs the skin, absently, while shaking his head a couple of times in evident disappointment.</p><p>“You can <strong><em>forget</em></strong> it, Dean. I think it’s best, Sammy, stays with Uncle Bobby. Maybe for the rest of the <em>year</em>, at least. That oughta give you some time to do some <strong><em>growin’</em></strong> <em>up.”</em></p><p>Something in Dean snaps as Dad heads for the door, with purpose. Flashes of that night return to him. Flashes of Dad shoving him into the unforgiving, wooden bedframe. Raging about his irresponsibility—<em>his messed-up methods of taking care of Sammy.</em></p><p>And he just <strong>can’t</strong> keep it together.</p><p>Storming after, Dad, he takes his arm and forces him back around, in order to look at him. Dean still stands like a dwarf alongside Dad—still barely reaches Dad’s shoulder, actually, but Dean is determined, not to let <strong><em>that</em></strong> be the end of it.</p><p>
  <em>Not this time, goddamn it!</em>
</p><p>“I haven’t said anythin’ to you about Sammy! <em>Not once!</em> I have done what you’d gone and <strong>asked</strong>! I got better on my <strong><em>own</em></strong>! I did it without you or <em>anyone else</em> touching me, and I have taken every <em>single</em> order without questionin’ it! So, <em>why</em>, Dad?! Why do you <em>still</em> think I’m <em>lying?!”</em></p><p>Dad reaches down and squeezes Dean’s shoulder. It takes him by surprise and Dean half-jumps out of his bones and half-cringes away before he even realizes that he’s gone and done it.</p><p><em>“<strong>That’s </strong></em>why, Dean,” Dad says matter-of-factly with a semi-smug expression on his face.</p><p>Dean shakes off the moment and inches closer to Dad, determinedly. “That doesn’t <strong>prove</strong> anythin’, Dad. You took me by <em>surprise</em>, is all.”</p><p>“You think I ain’t heard ya in the shower, Boy? You cry when you don’t think I will take any notice.”</p><p>Dean’s spine charges with electric-like jolts of warning.</p><p>
  <em>“Dad—”</em>
</p><p>“And the almost <strong><em>pathological</em></strong> way you clean your gun an’ blade, over and over. It ain’t normal. I reckon it keeps the nerves at bay, am I close?” Dean glances away and Dad carries on, “Then, there are the <strong>moans</strong> in your sleep. You cry <em>out</em> for Sammy, Dean. Every <strong>single</strong> night.”</p><p>All of these things, that Dean thought were just exclusively <strong><em>his</em></strong> to know about—<em>Dad knew all along.</em></p><p>All of his hope crumbles and his will breaks down. These past weeks were pointless—<em>useless</em>—because Dad still sees him as a weak, pathetic, <strong><em>irresponsible</em></strong> child.</p><p>“Dad—<em>Daddy</em>—” Dean lets that stupid, pathetic, childish name fall out of his mouth, because he just can’t take this, anymore.</p><p>
  <em>All these goddamned mind games!</em>
</p><p>“You asked me to <strong>heal</strong> … to get <em>better</em>, without Sammy and I’ve done the <strong>best</strong> I could. I take showers to calm myself and yeah, sometimes … <em>sometimes</em> I start to cry, ‘cause you have no idea how difficult it is for me to be <strong>stoic</strong> and … and like <strong><em>you</em></strong> every single day, just on the off-chance that I might <em>somehow</em> convince you that I deserve a second chance to do <em>right</em> by Sammy.”</p><p>Dean has no way of knowing whether this is <strong>hurting</strong> or <em>helping</em> his case, but it’s the closest thing to the truth, Dean, can muster up from the gouge of ache that is deep inside of him, that consistently goes ignored.</p><p>Dad goes and sits back down, <em>(this time on the edge of his bed)</em> rubbing his temples like he’s staving off a headache, and for the moment, Dean dares to feel the tiniest bit triumphant.</p><p>“You ain’t healed up, Boy. I know yer not,” Dad is starting to slur his words a lot more, now.</p><p>Dean makes the half-cocked decision to stroll over to him, and crawl right up onto his lap.</p><p>This is the first time, since Dad took Sammy that Dean has been <em>this</em> close to him. And only when Dad is this plastered would Dean <strong><em>ever</em></strong> take this risk, again, but right now, Dean, is teetering on the edge of losing Sammy for a whole <em>eight more months</em>, so he could be considered good and desperate for something—<em>anything</em>—to work.</p><p>“Dean. What’re you doin, Boy?” Dad is trying to sound like he’s giving off a warning, but Dean can see right through him.</p><p>Dad is taken aback.</p><p>“You keep sayin’ that I’m <strong>not</strong> healed, Dad, but I am as healed as I’ll <strong><em>ever</em></strong> be. Eight more months isn’t gonna change that.”</p><p>Dad lifts his hands and caresses the span of Dean’s skin, through his plaid shirt. Dean has to count in his head, and think long and hard about Sammy, so that he doesn’t descend into a panic—<em>here and now—</em>but he <strong>somehow</strong> manages it.</p><p>“So, what? You <strong><em>want</em></strong> me to touch you? Is <strong>that</strong> it?” Dad taunts while easing his fingers in a slow work, against Dean’s high-strung flesh.</p><p>Every tease is like fiery steam and it stimulates and exhausts, Dean, at the same time. It’s so damn hard to be touched, now. So much worse, yet, Dean, also finds that he <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to be.</p><p>It’s sick and Dean doesn’t understand it <em>himself</em>, but it’s what his mind tells him.</p><p>Touch is now, good and bad, and it’s often somewhere caught in-between.</p><p>“What do you want to do to me when you look at me, Dad? I know you still see <strong><em>her</em></strong> in me, sometimes. I got eyes and I notice things, too,” Dean whispers, still with one final trick up his sleeve.</p><p>One last one—and he prays to <em>God</em> it works.</p><p><em>“Dean—”</em> Dad lets it off in as a much more avid warning—but its <strong><em>more</em></strong> than that.</p><p>Dean takes a peek deep into Dad’s soul and he sees that loneliness—<em>Dean connects to it</em>—and he decides to do one last thing—<em>for Sammy.</em></p><p>With a desperation striking up in him, Dean, dips close and captures Dad’s lips. Dragging and brushing his chapped petals against Dad’s much rougher ones. He ups the stakes and kisses like he’s seen adults kiss—<em>like Jake kissed him that night</em>—by sliding his tongue into Dad’s mouth.</p><p>Kisses that meld and settle, until Dean feels his chest tighten. Hot, raw sensation spreading down his body to bury-home in his lower abdomen.</p><p>Dad kisses him back, like a man <em>starved</em>—and Dean allows himself to settle and ease, because <em>(for Sammy)</em> Dean can withstand anything.</p><p>When the kiss breaks, Dean, tastes the whiskey from Dad’s mouth and smells it on his breath, but doesn’t mind it, none. Dean hopes that he’ll get contact drunk—<em>even just the tiniest bit.</em></p><p>“What you doin,’ Boy? We talked about you doin’ this sorta thing.”</p><p>Dean runs his tongue between his lips, tasting Dad on them. Clacks his teeth together and tries to right his thoughts.</p><p>“You give me back, Sammy, and I’ll let you do what you want. But you gotta <em>promise</em> … Sammy is <strong>mine</strong>. You’ll never take him from me, again.  You know I’m what’s <strong>best</strong> for him. You know I’d <em>never</em> do nothin’ to <strong>hurt</strong> that kid. I love him, Dad. I love him as much as I love <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Dad blinks a few times and lets off a grunt of frustration. Something bold and subtle lights up in Dad’s darkish-hues, and Dean can’t work out what Dad’s slow, drunken mind is possibly thinking, but he hopes to <em>God</em> this works.</p><p>“You tryin’ to tempt me, Boy? You want to wind up <em>under</em> me? Is <strong><em>that</em></strong> it?” With all his strength, Dad, hoists Dean up from his lap and presses him back into the mattress. Dad’s suddenly hovering over him and Dean is light-headed, with panic in his chest <em>(racing his heart)</em> and Sammy in the back of his mind, running his thoughts and actions.</p><p>One thing Dean can <em>always</em> count on, is his hormones to make inappropriate decisions <strong>for</strong> him. Same as it did that night with Jake. Dean’s boyhood stiffens to a rock-solid, point in his bottoms, portraying his nerves, guilt, and fear—but pretending arousal to anyone that <em>might</em> notice and see.</p><p>Dean hopes it will be enough to make Dad believe what he <strong>wants</strong> to believe.</p><p>With his left hand, Dean, guides one of Dad’s to cup his package, allowing him to feel for himself what that kiss did to him.</p><p>“Still think I ain’t <em>healed</em>, Dad?” Dean makes another risky decision and plays his lips at Dad’s throat, kissing searing-hot trails up the skin. Kissing the way, Dad, kissed him behind his ears and neck in the past.</p><p>Dad makes a tortured sound and tightens his fingers on Dean’s cock.</p><p>“Ya ain’t <em>healed</em>, Dean,” Dad manages to half-groan, “But you know how to <strong>tempt</strong> a man and that’s a <em>dangerous</em> form of knowledge, Boy.”</p><p>Ripples of shame flood throughout Dean’s frame. Dean knows this sort of thing isn’t natural—<em>he does</em>—but Dad’s spoken to him enough time about aches and Mom for Dean to know its Dad’s <em>sole</em> weakness.</p><p>This is the only thing Dean can exploit to persuade Dad to return <strong><em>his</em></strong>, Sammy.</p><p>And this time, Dad’s, drunk enough to fall for it.</p><p>Dean knows he’ll never be prepared enough for where this all is leading. It took a long time for Dean to heal, physically, after he was with that vile, repugnant man, but this is <em>Dad</em>. He hopes he’ll be <strong>gentle</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Loving.</em>
</p><p>Like he would have been with <em>Mom</em>.</p><p>Dean tries to focus with Dad fondling him but it’s growing more and more difficult as fog and haze takes root.</p><p>“If you want me … then <em>indulge</em>. I won’t tell, we’re <strong><em>alone</em></strong>. And you need somethin’ to take the edge off. The whiskey ain’t <em>helping</em>, is it, Dad?” Dean starts sweet-talking Dad the best way he knows how.</p><p>It might not be perfect, but Dean is so far into this fucked-up deal that he can’t turn back—<em>He won’t.</em></p><p>Dad sits up, and for a second, Dean, thinks he may have taken things <em>too</em> far, but then Dad is swiping up a spare bottle of whiskey from his nightstand, unscrewing the lid, and holding it out for Dean to drink.</p><p>“I won’t touch you, <em>sober</em>, Boy. Drink some an’ don’t be sparse,” Dad orders.</p><p>Dean doesn’t think about it <em>(or even remotely try to refuse this time)</em> because he knows what the <strong><em>edge</em></strong> will amount to and he needs it to taper off—<em>a lot</em>—or else he’ll <strong>never</strong> be okay, again.</p><p>Dean chugs one-third of the bottle and coughs his way through it. It burns and stings and tickles, but Dean somehow manages it.</p><p>Dean learned the hard way that you <strong><em>never</em></strong> refuse a drink.</p><p>“There, that oughta do it,” Dad observes.</p><p>Dean has to agree with him on that front. Within seconds the effects have started to hit him and his mind feels woozy and dizzy. The room spins and Dean falls back on the bed. Muscles loose and flesh tingly, <em>especially</em> down in his crotch.</p><p>It is almost making Dean frisky and his hips buck a little as he makes it known that he desperately <strong>wants</strong> his bottom half, touched.</p><p>Dad appears amused, when he takes note of Dean’s hip undulations. Reaching down a hand, Dad, caresses him through his bottoms, massaging and stroking his hard flesh with purpose.</p><p>“Thought it was a <em>fluke</em>,” Dad laughs a little, clearly displaying amusement at Dean’s predicament, “Yer one of them <strong>needy</strong> drunks, ain’t cha, Dean?”</p><p>Stark keens fall out of Dean’s pink, parted lips and he feels all aspirations fade from view—all he can think about is Dad’s hand on his boy-part and his touch spreading <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong>, like an all-encompassing sheet of splendor.</p><p>Dean can’t even form words enough to answer, they come out in jumbles and sighs. And his eyes fall to a close as he tries to work it all out.</p><p>“Yeah. Yer just like <em>her</em>—<em>even drunk,</em>” Dad’s enjoyment turns sad all of the sudden, and Dean’s eyes are lidded as Dad withdraws his hand and starts to unbutton the flannel, exposing Dean’s torso. Helping to guide Dean out of the shirt. Dean, loses a few seconds and finds Dad has shed him out of his jeans and boxers, when he comes around.</p><p>The air is chilly against his bare skin.</p><p>Dean is fully exposed his scarlet-red need, throbbing and pointed upright. Dad wastes no time in stripping himself, too. Exposing the bulk of his muscles and the bulge of his superior, thick need to Dean’s swirly vision.</p><p>Dean marvels at Dad’s full-grown need—<em>it dwarfs Dean’s in comparison</em>—and reminds Dean how difficult it is to <strong><em>take</em></strong> a full-grown man, this way.</p><p>Panic <em>would</em> have risen in, Dean, were he able to think <em>(at all)</em> clearly, but it doesn’t, because it can’t—because Dean can’t.</p><p>The thought seems abject and unimportant right now. Because Dad still has that shimmery sadness reflected in his eyes and there’s no more jokes or light-making, coming from Dad’s lips now.</p><p>It’s, <em>only</em>, burn and ice that attack Dean’s mouth with kisses and this drive, that doesn’t really remind Dean of Jake. It doesn’t remind Dean of anything he’s ever known, before. It must equate to all Dad’s pain and lust and <strong><em>loneliness</em></strong>.</p><p>That must be what, Dean, <em>sees—experiences—<strong>feels</strong>.</em></p><p>And Dad kisses at his neck, his cheeks, his lips, face, jaw—while running eager fingers all over Dean’s skin and half-lying on top of him. It’s overstimulation for Dean and it makes him push up his hips and drive his length along Dad’s belly and soon enough—<em>Dean cums.</em></p><p>It is quick and messy, and the brunt of Dean’s seed marks Dad’s ab-defined, torso and Dean’s own pelvic area—but Dad doesn’t seem to even <em>notice</em> or <strong>mind</strong> the mess that coats them.</p><p>Suddenly, Dad’s, kisses turn to angry nips focused upon Dean’s jaw and neck—and correlates to whispers in Dean’s left ear.</p><p>“Fuck, I fought so <em>long</em> to spare you this, Boy. But you had to keep <strong>pushin</strong>,’ didn’t ya? Pushin’ and teasin’ until any <em>sane</em> man would crack and <strong><em>need</em></strong> you. You’re gonan be <strong>dangerous</strong>, one day. Gonna be able to seduce <em>anyone</em> …” Dad slurs, while squeezing compulsively at Dean’s sides.</p><p>Dean on the other hand is arching and losing his mind in this heat and spiral—<em>and shame</em>—that’s morphed into the same nothingness that the cheap whiskey keeps inspiring in Dean’s mind.</p><p>Dad lifts up his head and stalls his kisses, using spit as lube, Dean, loses a few seconds in the remainder of his bliss—<em>or did he lose minutes?</em> Dean doesn’t actually know the answer.</p><p>But he comes back around when the bulk of Dad thrusts up inside of him—<em>and stings like a million bees.</em></p><p>Dean scrunches up his eyes, using his hands to squeeze and draw Dad down, closer, on top of him. With Jake he was on his knees and fucked into from <em>behind</em> … but Dad has his legs bent at opposite angles, to open him up in order to take him from <em>on top.</em></p><p>It’s more <strong>intimate</strong> this way—and Dad doesn’t treat him like a toy to use and abuse. Just like Dean hoped—Dad goes <em>slow</em> and <strong>gentle</strong>.</p><p>Dad moans and kisses the swell of Dean’s pout. While Dean drifts between being present—<em>and being elsewhere.</em></p><p>It’s all he can do to stay sane, while Dad essentially makes love to him—<em>probably the same way he once did with Mom.</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t cry, he just <strong>takes</strong> it. Kisses and soothes Dad when Dad’s <em>guilt</em> presents itself—and Dean gasps when Dad finishes and that familiar heat pools up inside of him.</p><p>Dad kisses his mouth and rides out his orgasm, until the waves subside and the guilt with it.</p><p>Sometime, later, Dean, feels Dad wind an arm around his waist, after pulling from inside and on top of Dean—and they fall asleep like that. In mess and drunkenness.</p><p>And Dean awaits the fall-out of the morning as dreams of Sammy creep right in.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>xxxxx</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Shit!”</em>
</p><p>Dean wrenches into consciousness with a pound in his head and an ache in his muscles that he knows <em>all-too-well.</em></p><p>Dad is holding his head in his hands, squeezing his bloodshot eyes with his fingers, and shaking his head, repeatedly.</p><p>Dean discovers dried cum on his thighs that spilled out when Dad pulled out of him, along with Dean’s own seed that spilled and spread when Dad stimulated him.</p><p>Not for the first time, Dean, wants to <strong><em>die</em></strong>.</p><p>This morbid shame, Dean, feels in the wake of <strong>seducing</strong> Dad will stay with him for as long as he lives—maybe even <strong><em>beyond</em></strong> the grave.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know how he will <em>ever</em> live with this.</p><p>It’s worse than <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks,’ </em>for Sammy. It’s downright <strong>unconscionable</strong>.</p><p>“Dad. I’m—”</p><p><em>“Don’t, Dean!”</em> Dad barks and Dean flinches, reflexively.</p><p>Dean knows that he’s <strong>fucked</strong> now—<em>what more can he say?</em></p><p>“Dad—”</p><p>“No, Dean! I fuckin’ <strong>told</strong> you, no!” The livid expression on Dad’s face, shuts Dean up instantly.</p><p>Dean goes into a rigid stance as he works all of this out in his head.</p><p>“Go an’ take a shower, right now, Boy!” Dad orders, “Then <em>we’re leavin’!”</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t try to say another word. He climbs to his feet, strides into the bathroom, and runs a shower. The tears that fall this time—<em>are his own damned fault.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t expect, Dad, to drive them one state over to, Missouri, and register him and Sam for school, there. And he certainly doesn’t expect Dad to drive them toward Bobby’s house either—<em>towards Sammy</em>—but, Dad, does.</p><p>“I need time <em>away</em> from you, Dean,” Dad says at some point during the lengthy drive to Bobby’s to collect Sammy. “That much is inarguably <em>clear.”</em></p><p>Dean swallows around a well-formed lump clogging up his airway and tries not to think about Dad’s touch that is still <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong> all over his skin and bones.</p><p>“Dad—” Dean tries to reason—he doesn’t know why he does—<em>but he tries.</em></p><p>One icy glance from Dad freezes him in his tracks.</p><p>“You are <strong>damaged</strong>, Son. Beyond repair, I think. And though you ain’t <em>right</em>, it is evident that you will do things, any <strong>number</strong> of things to get Sam back, and I won’t try to separate the pair of you again, so long as you make me a <em>promise</em>, right here and now, Dean.”</p><p>Dean’s heart races and he suddenly feels elation at the prospect of a reunion <em>(for good)</em> with Sammy. This is what he fought for—<em>what he’d die for</em>—but at the same time, Sam, would never forgive him if he knew the <strong>lengths</strong> Dean sunk to, to get him back.</p><p>So, there is guilt and elation all tangled in a rat’s nest from hell, living inside of Dean, right now—<em>forever, more like.</em></p><p>“Promise, what?” Dean dares to ask.</p><p>“You ain’t gonna keep this <strong>shit</strong> up, Dean. You are gonna pull yourself together and be a big <em>brother</em> to him. Teach him to fight, feed him with the money <strong><em>I</em></strong> give you an’ not off <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks,’</em> and most of all, Dean, I want your honest-to-God promise that you <strong>won’t</strong> touch him, again.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes go blank for a second and he looks up at, Dad, torn and conflicted because he doesn’t quite grasp <em>(or want to grasp)</em> what Dad means by that.</p><p>“What? Dad …”</p><p>“I <em>mean</em> it, Dean. This ain’t up for discussin.’ If you don’t promise me, right now, I will turn this car around and you will <strong><em>never</em></strong> see, Sam, again. Your touch is <em>poison</em>, Boy. You <strong>understand</strong> that? You could coax the likes of a <em>demon</em> between your sheets an’ you ain’t even done <em>growin’</em> yet,” Dad huffs out a sigh and continues on, “I think you <strong>love</strong>, Sam, in fact, I <em>know</em> you do an’ that is the <strong>only</strong> reason I am allowin’ you near him, again. The <em>only</em> reason.”</p><p>Dean pushes his left hand into his right arm and pinches the skin until it <strong>bruises</strong>. Pinches until the ache Dad stirs up in him, beats back down a little bit.</p><p>“Dad, Sammy, expects it from me. <em>Touch …”</em></p><p>Dad winces as though he’s physically <em>scorched</em> by Dean’s words.</p><p>“No! I <em>won’t</em> have it. You hear me, Dean? Do you? When I say you don’t <em>touch</em> him, I mean it. No <em>hugging</em>, <em>kissing</em>, touching before bedtime. <em>None of that</em>. It ain’t natural the way you taught him to need cuddles like some soft-bellied, female. You would only need ask an’ that boy would let you <strong><em>have</em></strong> him on his back, like I had <em>you</em> last night, Dean.”</p><p>Dean is almost sick in the front seat. His stomach heaves, but he swallows down the bile that <strong>rises</strong> in his throat. If Dad only knew that Sammy’s innocence has already been called into question by him—<em>that would be the end of it.</em></p><p>Dad might physically kill him—<em>with his bare fucking hands.</em></p><p>“And no sharing his bed unless <em>I </em>am in the motel with you, understand? If I catch you breakin’ these rules, I <strong>will</strong> separate you. You find your <em>pleasures</em> elsewhere, Dean. There are plenty of girls that would drop their <strong>panties</strong> for you—you don’t <em>need</em> Sammy.”</p><p>The more Dad talks the less <strong>human</strong>, Dean, feels. The detachment buries itself deep into Dean’s skull and the way his skin crawls as he pictures the <strong><em>poison</em></strong> Dad is talking about, seeping through his veins … after weeks of trying to convince himself that he <em>is</em> worth something, Dad, imploded all of that <strong>progress</strong> in seconds-flat.</p><p>Now, Dean, knows <em>(even if Sam begs it of him)</em> that he won’t be able to <em>bring</em> himself to touch. Not when his touch is like this <em>seductive</em> poison …</p><p>“I … I <strong>promise</strong>, Sir,” Dean’s voice cracks and wavers with a tearful edge to it.</p><p>“I’ll <em>know</em> if you lie to me about this, Dean.”</p><p>Dean can’t argue with that—Dad <em>always</em> knows everything.</p><p>“I know,” Dean can barely whisper, his eyes fall closed and the effectual swarm of guilt and suffering begins to take root, planting deeper and deeper into Dean the further they drive and the deeper his thoughts go.</p><p>“I saw what you’ve gone an’ done to your skin, Boy,” Dad nods down at Dean’s <em>(still-pinching)</em> hand and Dean releases the skin taking note of the forming bruise he’s made, along with the countless others all around it <em>(from other times he’s pinched)</em>. “People like you an’ me. We ain’t <em>normal</em>, Dean. You get <strong>that</strong>, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, Sir.” Dean bites back an ocean of tears and defeat that take shelter in his eyes and skull. None of this is <em>right</em>, nor fair.</p><p>It never will be, but it’s the cards Dean has been dealt.</p><p>Sammy got the <em>smarts</em>—Dean got the mental <strong>sickness</strong>.</p><p>The one that drives him to want and take at will. That drive heightens, ten-fold, when Dean is with Sam.</p><p>“An’ the way I see it, Sam, isn’t gonna be like <em>us</em>, Dean. Not so long as you guide him toward the straight an’ narrow path. He has a damn good chance an’ you are gonna let him have it—so <strong><em>help</em></strong> me, Dean.”</p><p>Dean nods again. “I will, Sir. I won’t go touchin’ him. <em>Ever.”</em></p><p>“Good,” Dad pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it over to Dean, “Now memorize these numbers.”</p><p>One is Pastor Jim’s and the other is Bobby’s—a number he has been desperate to see for months, but now just puts a pit in his stomach.</p><p>Nonetheless, Dean, does as he is told.</p><p>Dad, seems appeased by Dean’s solemn promises.</p><p>And Dean meant them—<em>and he proves it.</em></p><p>When he first sees, Sammy, at a full-on sprint towards the Impala, Dean, steps out and doesn’t open his arms.</p><p>That expectant look that Sam shoots him, almost crushes Dean inside, but one look at Dad tells him that this is his very <strong><em>first</em></strong> test—and he passes with flying colors. Taking, Sam’s, hand and guiding him into Bobby’s house, where he packs and uses harsh tones to ward off Sammy’s questions—<em>Sammy’s love.</em></p><p>It kills part of Dean to do it—but an even more <em>significant</em> part of Dean has been dead for months, now, anyway. So, what does it even matter if he buries whatever remains-to-be-seen under piles and piles of Sammy’s disappointment and disdain?</p><p>Dean builds up the shell around his heart and soul, brick by brick during the lengthy drive they take in the Impala. Dean can almost feel Sam’s eyes burning his skull—but he doesn’t take the bait.</p><p>Dean <strong>never</strong> looks back.</p><p>If he does—<em>and he sees Sammy like that</em>—he might still crack, and Dean doesn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not with Dad right here in the car—<em>not ever again.</em></p><p>The thin visage of Sammy is like a brick to the chest to, Dean, because it means that <em>his</em> Sammy—<em>his kid</em>—has gone hungry in his absence. Not because Bobby didn’t feed him, but because <em>(and hearing these words from Sammy’s own lips almost shred him apart)</em> Sammy <em>‘missed him.’</em></p><p>If, Dean, didn’t feel like complete <strong>shit</strong> before, that would have fucking did it, right there.</p><p>Sammy’s <em>(once vibrant)</em> deep-green eyes are hollow and sunken-in from his extensive weight-loss, and lack of sleep. Dean doesn’t need Sammy to tell him that his inability to sleep stems from Dean not being there to cuddle up with—<em>Dean knows that in his heart.</em></p><p>The car ride is like torture and Dad’s lecture to Sammy makes Dean angry and prickles his skin, because Sammy doesn’t need a lecture—<em>he needs to be held</em>—but Dean isn’t <strong>allowed</strong> to hold him anymore.</p><p>Dean isn’t allowed to do <em>anything</em> that he’s used to, anymore.</p><p>At the hotel, things don’t get better—they only seem to get exponentially worse. And Dean’s plan was to start-off from the get-go, with a prickly tone and as few words between them as possible, in order to help, Sam, better understand, how things <em>need</em> to be from now on—<em>but it only seems to fuel the voice in Sammy’s head that tells him Dean is the reason he was sent away</em>—and it’s all too much for Sam.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know any other way to handle this. Dad left him no room in the margins for error.</p><p>Dean can’t hold, Sammy. Can’t touch him—can’t show kinship and love like he’s used to.</p><p>Dean feels incapably hollow.</p><p>If he gives Sammy an inch, he’ll take the whole damn mile, and Dean would never be able to live with himself if Sam were to wind up like, <strong><em>him</em></strong>, all because Dean couldn’t keep his hands to himself.</p><p>If Sam was aware that Dean played <strong><em>whore</em></strong> to Dad—Sam would never want to be touched by Dean <em>anyway</em>.</p><p>At least, Dean, <strong><em>hopes</em></strong> Sammy wouldn’t.</p><p>When, Sammy, lashes out at Dean and locks himself in the bathroom, Dean, feels his stomach shift, because he knows Sam just lost what little food, he ate down the drain.</p><p>Dean can’t offer Sammy a hug—<em>even though he desperately wants to use one as an incentive to coax Sammy back out of the bathroom</em>—so, instead, he does the only thing he’s capable of doing.</p><p>Dean goes to bed. Hoping that Sammy will come out on his own eventually—<em>he never does.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean catches himself standing over Sam’s bed, night after night, <em>(after Sammy inevitably struggles into unconsciousness)</em> wanting to touch Sam’s silky-smooth hair <em>(that Bobby must have somehow gotten trimmed) </em>but finds that he can’t even do that.</p><p>Every time, Dean, thinks about so-much-as, <em>grazing</em> Sammy <em>(in any significant way)</em> Dad’s words return to him like an insipid force that overtakes all else.</p><p><em>‘Your touch is like poison …’</em> plays over and over until Dean is aware of it in every compartment of his brain. And, <strong>eventually</strong>, instead of coursing his fingers through Sam’s hair, he’s running the blade of his own knife over a patch of skin, while hoisting up his flannel to his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.</p><p>It’s both a punishment and a release—a release of frustration and anger. At himself—at Dad for dangling Sammy like a freaking carrot over his head. Like Sammy could ever be some kind of goddamn, carrot! Until Dean was so <em>desperate</em> for him back that he was willing even to <em>seduce</em> and pick at Dad’s weaknesses in a bid to <strong>convince</strong> him.</p><p>Sickness doesn’t begin to cover what resides deep underneath, Dean’s, festering skin.</p><p>It’s more of an <strong>ache</strong>—and less of a <em>controllable thing. </em></p><p>It just <em>is</em>.</p><p>Just <strong><em>exists</em></strong>.</p><p>The frustration only mounts, <em>considerably,</em> as Sammy <strong>rebels</strong> against him. Refuses to speak to him—<em>refuses to eat</em>—and worst of all, looks <strong>deathlier</strong> by the day.</p><p>Pretty soon, Sam, is going to flat-out <strong>die</strong> on him—<em>and Dean doesn’t know what he’s gonna do about that.</em></p><p>Sam willfully throws out his meals, just to torture, Dean, it would seem—<em>just to drive a</em> <strong><em>reaction</em></strong>—and the whole time Dean wishes he could do what he knows Sammy <strong>wants</strong> him to do.</p><p>Dean wishes and wishes that he could go back to when he used to hold Sammy for <em>hours</em>. They would cuddle and Dean would graze his back with little eases of deft fingertips—and Sammy would make these tiny little noises of contentment.</p><p>Most of all, Dean, wishes to go back to a time when he, too, could boast innocence. That’s all gone away, now. It’s all tainted—and just plain <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>It’s <em>entirely</em> out of the question.</p><p>So, Dean, cleans his gun and knife, instead. Over and over. Checks every lock and bolt on the door, incessantly. And he tries like <strong><em>hell</em></strong> to just keep Sammy <em>alive</em>. It’s the only actions that Dean can partake to keep himself from going full-on batshit.</p><p>After all these torturous days of Sammy cold-shoulder-ing, Dean, he finally tries to strike a conversation with him.</p><p>A <em>real</em> one.</p><p>Dean’s one goal is to convince Sammy that he needs to eat—<em>not starve himself</em>—because Dean has gone through too much shit to watch this kid <em>(<strong>his</strong> kid, goddamn-it-all!)</em> <em>starve to <strong>death</strong> … </em></p><p>But … Sam’s will, is <strong><em>strong</em></strong>—so much stronger than Dean has ever given him credit for in the past.</p><p>And Dean finds that Sammy breaks—and not just a <strong>little</strong> bit ...</p><p><em>No</em>.</p><p>Sammy breaks <strong><em>hard</em></strong>, and right past the quick.</p><p> The final straw. Dean is forced <em>(by his own traumatized and ruined braincells) </em>to stand here and listen to Sammy berate him for everything he’s done—<em>for all of it.</em></p><p>For Sammy’s time spent at Bobby’s house. For the touches between Sammy’s thighs <em>(that, let’s be honest, Dean, <strong>never doubted for a second,</strong> wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass one day)</em> and, lastly, for the past days of silent <em>(tortured)</em> suffering that has been going on right in this <strong>very</strong> room.</p><p>Sammy holds nothing back, <em>whatsoever</em>.</p><p>That fact alone, not only twists Dean up inside but devastates the chambers of his heart, weakening the divide Dean has spent months and weeks nailing profoundly into the thoroughly-<em>obliterated</em> muscle.</p><p>Sam pushes on his skin where the scars and bruises mostly lie hidden and Dean crumples.</p><p>Not like a kid—<em>more like a toddler</em>—and he goes into panicky hyperventilation.</p><p>He hears Sam flee for the bathroom, but he can’t bring himself to speak—<em>to react. </em></p><p>The weight of Dad’s accusations, coupled with his own immense regrets and shameful truths all hurl together at once, and Dean—Dean experiences the brunt of this torture, like he does his unnatural love for Sammy in his darkened soul.</p><p>And, Dean, unwinds. <em>Completely</em>.</p><p>It is all that, Dean, <em>can</em> do.</p><p>Dad gave him an impossible task and Dean tried and failed to execute it, properly.</p><p>Instead—<em>like always</em>—it just went to <strong>shit</strong>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xii. tethered &amp; bound in pain.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean picks himself off the motel carpet, eventually.</p><p>How many hours? Minutes? Seconds, later?</p><p>Dean doesn’t have the <em>faintest</em> clue.</p><p>What, Dean, does know, is that Sammy needs him. That, <em>this</em>, has to end.</p><p>That hurt in Sammy’s eyes … it was synonymous to that of a wounded animal. Gouged and slashed to shit with a box-cutter—<em>wounded.</em></p><p>No, more like, full-on, <strong><em>broken</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean, never wants to break Sammy. Yet, anything, Dean, can possibly do <em>(physically)</em> will be like melding Sammy down to his will—seducing Sammy to his bed and enticing him under the covers with warm, <em>sensual</em> touches of nimble fingers …</p><p>Dean cringes at the thought of <strong>bending</strong> Sammy to his will, the way he bent <em>Dad</em> to his will.</p><p>Dean is dangerous. The face he has grown up, despising and staring at in mirrors has this powerful allure to it, that ensnares victims. That ravages minds and makes Dean like one of the <em>things</em> Dad hunts.</p><p>That thought, induces a shiver that spirals—<em>everywhere</em>.</p><p>Will Dad put <strong><em>him</em></strong> down one day? Because of this <em>dangerous</em> ability, Dean, has?</p><p>Dean knows the answer—Dad will if he <em>has</em> to. If, Dean, gives him <strong><em>cause</em></strong> to.</p><p>If, Dean, uses his persuasive proclivities again—<em>on Sammy</em>.</p><p>Dean doubts what he can do is truly <em>‘supernatural’</em> perse. It’s more just subtle charms and charisma. It’s difficult for people to say <strong><em>no</em></strong> to him—or rather to <em>‘resist,’</em> him.</p><p>Like, Jake, who took a sadistic hankering to him and just <strong><em>had</em></strong> to partake in the inevitable lusts that followed.</p><p>The worst part of <strong><em>all</em></strong> of this is that, Dean, never intended to seduce a soul. Dad is merely drawn to him—<em>and always has been</em>. Sammy, too.</p><p>It was all innocent and harmless, once. But Dean’s forgotten what it is to be innocent. What was that <strong><em>like</em></strong>, anyhow?</p><p>Dean cringes, while making his way to the closed bathroom door. Dean tries the handle and finds <em>(mercifully)</em> that Sam left it unlocked. And there is Sam—curled in a ball-like shape, in a fit of sobs and sniffles that shake Sam’s whole body.</p><p>Snot runs down his upper-lip and redness is flushed under his already dark-ringed eyes.</p><p>Dean experiences his insides curl and pads across the bathroom tile, proceeding to settle down on the cool surface, just outside the tub. Kneeling in front to look Sam in the eye with an indecisive stare.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know <strong>how</strong> to fix this—<em>doesn’t even know if he truly can this time</em>—all Dean knows with any remote certainty at all, is that he has to <em>try</em>.</p><p>
  <em>For Sammy’s sake.</em>
</p><p>For the kind, sweet, caring <em>Sammy</em> that Dean had a large hand in stripping down to what he is now.</p><p>Sad. Isolated. Depressed. Most of all, lonely.</p><p>Just, <strong><em>inherently</em></strong>, lonely.</p><p>Maybe, what Dean has is more than a gift—<em>maybe it is</em> <em>‘supernatural’</em> <em>in nature</em>. Because, right now, Dean, senses the deep contours that make-up Sammy’s pain.</p><p>Dean can picture it festering like an <em>untended</em> wound.</p><p>And all, Dean, wants to do is <strong>mend</strong> it—and he knows how. The difficulty is that it will further <em>bend</em> this prominent innocence that still lives in Sammy.</p><p>It may even break it in halves and pieces.</p><p>“Go away, <em>Dean!</em> I don’t want you <strong>around</strong> me!” Sam lashes out with the apparent intention to maim, but Dean doesn’t believe that he can honestly sink down any lower <em>(at this point) </em>into this already bottomless pit that lives in his soul.</p><p>As it is, Dean, can no longer seem to pull himself out of the dark despair-filled hole that Dad dragged him down into, remorselessly, last week. Nor can he think about Sammy without seeing the innate poison left behind, for himself.</p><p>It <strong><em>is</em></strong> poison.</p><p>What else could have so <em>enticed</em>, Sammy, that’s now left him this detached and splintered? Sammy’s broken apart.</p><p>“Don’t you, Sammy?” Dean reaches down, traces his fingers just along the cusp of Sam’s unhealthily bone-thin shoulder. Down, until he makes it to the straight <em>line</em> of Sam’s waist.</p><p>Sam’s eyes fly open and his cheeks flare with a suddenly warmish-red color.</p><p>“What are you <em>doin,’</em> De?” It’s the first time Sam has used <em>that</em> nickname, since Dean and Dad picked Sam up from Bobby’s.</p><p>Dean tries not to think about the ease with which, it takes for him to coax a kinder tone out of Sammy. Tries not to notice the kissable pout on Sammy’s lips, that makes Dean want to draw in, nearer.</p><p>Biting back tears, Dean, has to persuade himself that <em>this</em> course of action is for the greater-good <em>(Sammy’s greater-good)</em> or else he will lose it. Because part of Dean—<em>a large freakin’ part</em>—can’t believe that he is doing this.</p><p>
  <em>Again.</em>
</p><p>That it <em>always</em> seems to come to this.</p><p>And he can’t help believing that Dad is right. Dean is a threat to Sammy’s innocence—to Sammy’s <strong>childhood</strong> as a <em>whole</em>.</p><p>“Takin’ care of <strong><em>you</em></strong>, Sammy,” Dean answers, sweeping his fingers around to the front of Sammy’s shirt. “That’s what you want, <strong>isn’t</strong> it, Sammy? Hm? That’s why you are <em>actin’</em> like this?”</p><p>Dean watches with observant eyes, as Sammy relents to the travels of his caresses. Allowing Dean’s hand to mold to the sensitized skin, just underneath his cotton t-shirt.</p><p>Dean knows just what to say, to have Sam aching and needing him, on a dime. There is an art to it, but also a searing knowledge that burns like a fiery landscape inside Dean and reminds him of his own dangerous impulses.</p><p>“We’re all each other <em>has</em>, when Dad is gone away, Sammy. I <strong>know</strong> that,” Dean says while keeping his eyes trained on Sammy’s facial reactions. Making mental notes of what seems to feel good, right now—<em>relearning the old-familiar landscape that makes up Sammy’s skin</em>—hoping to win over Sam’s mind in the process. “Is this what your frustrations’ been about, Sammy? I haven’t been a good enough big brother?”</p><p>Dean is winding himself up into little knots, inside.  He promised Dad—<em>promised himself</em>—that this course of action would never happen again. This sickens Dean, that he’s like this—that he even <strong>thinks</strong> like this.</p><p>The more Dean touches, the more his own skin flames-up for more—<em>the worse he starts to ache between his thighs</em>—and the less control Dean maintains over himself.</p><p>Sammy is too young to fully comprehend what this is and Dean knows it. He’s known it since Sam stimulated him on the motel couch—<em>and he knows it,</em> <strong><em>now</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean comes into that knowledge as his hand travels lower, stoppering-off just at the waistband of Sam’s hand-me-down jeans.</p><p>Dean closes his eyes and after a half-second’s realization how close he is to crossing over a thinly-drawn line—he pulls his hand, back away.</p><p>Sam looks at him, perplexed, with his eyes still half-lidded and a dozy part to his lips.</p><p>Dean could so easily lean in and just—</p><p><em>‘Fuck! I have to stop this, shit!’</em> Dean mentally screams at himself.</p><p>There has to be another way to break through to Sam—to repair the damage that Dad forced Dean to make of this, once, <em>affectionate</em> bond.</p><p>There has to be a way that won’t further spread the poison that’s already here—that Dean already tucked-up like hidden contortions deep inside of Sam.</p><p>“Dean …” Sammy climbs out of the tub <em>(while Dean is still deep in thought)</em> and latches onto Dean before, Dean, can even realize what Sam’s doing.</p><p>Sam curls his arms around Dean, burrows his face into his neck and seems to drink him in. Everything inside of Dean wants to push Sammy away—but at the same time this level of contact is something Dean still ultimately <strong><em>craves</em></strong> with Sammy. Even if it scares the hell out of Dean that he might not be able to handle it. (Thanks to Jake and the scars he etched in Dean.)</p><p>The sensation is instantaneous and it reminds Dean of coming home.</p><p>Sammy <strong><em>is</em></strong> his home.</p><p>“What are you doin,’ Sam?” it’s Dean’s turn to ask that question, with the same hint of conflict in his tone as Sammy’s held seconds ago.</p><p>“Promise you don’t hate me, De.” It is said with such a meek, uncertainty, that Dean is given pause by it.</p><p>
  <em>“Sammy—”</em>
</p><p>“Promise, De. You <strong>have</strong> to promise that … that I’m not some sort of burden and that you <em>do</em> love me …” Sammy’s voice quivers and makes the uncertainty in Dean lesson considerably.</p><p>“Sammy, <em>Jesus …”</em> Dean lifts one of his hands to Sammy’s skelp and breathes through the mild onset of panic <em>(and tenseness in his muscles and bones)</em> preparing himself to say the rest of what he <strong>needs</strong> to say to resolve this. “I don’t <em>hate</em> you, Sammy. I could <strong>never</strong> hate you, Kiddo.”</p><p>“But you didn’t hug me at Uncle Bobby’s and you sent me away. Why did you have Dad send me away? Was I, <em>bad?</em> Did I … did I do something to upset you, De?”</p><p>Dean knows that if he shatters Sam’s belief that he was the ultimate culprit behind Sam’s abandonment, that it will be difficult <em>(impossible really)</em> to return to the way Dad wants things to be <em>(between Sam and Dean)</em> while they are alone, together. But Dean can’t look down into these heartbroken eyes of Sammy’s and lie—Dean is as much <em>(if not more)</em> weak when it pertains to all-things Sammy, as Sammy appears to be when it comes to Dean.</p><p>
  <em>Damn it all to hell! This kid will be his death!</em>
</p><p>“I didn’t ask Dad to take you away, Sammy,” Dean explains with a curbed tone—still trying to contain even a <strong>portion</strong> of his incessant emotions.</p><p>“Then why’d Dad do it?” Dean can see that underneath this mask of excruciation—<em>of pain</em>—that Sammy is still himself. He is still alive in here, somewhere. It’s just a matter of delving down deep to reach for him—<em>to draw Sammy back to the surface where he belongs</em>—back out of his underweight, overstressed shell.</p><p>Dean fights his inner-urge to touch Sam’s waist and silence him the way that Dean knows he could do <em>(again)</em> in seconds-flat. Dean tightens his hands into fists next to his upper-thighs, somehow managing to keep his touch from traveling down and across Sam’s sides—like Dean so desperately wants to.</p><p>“Dad did it because he doesn’t think <em>this</em> is good for you, Sammy.” This is the only path Dean can take that won’t implode <strong>everything</strong> between Sam and himself. Sammy hasn’t given him a whole lot of options—or wiggle room to secure his way back out of this.</p><p>“Doesn’t think <em>what</em> is good for me, Dean?” Sammy scoots further up on Dean’s thighs, until their crotches press tight together and Dean is engulfed by Sam’s body-heat around his middle.</p><p>Closing his eyes, Dean, takes a massive breath, trying to clear his mind.</p><p>“<em>This</em>, Sammy … The way you <em>cling</em> to me and need me to sleep at night. It isn’t <strong>natural</strong>, Man. You get that, don’t you?”</p><p>It has come to the moment of <em>truth</em> … figuring out how much Sam understands the connotations of what they’ve done.</p><p>If anything, that massive blow-up a in the room only furthered the idea currently swimming around in Dean’s head that Sammy is completely clueless and Dean’s conceivably messed him up.</p><p>More than messed him up, Dean, realizes that he’s gnarled-up Sammy on the inside, along with his perception of things.</p><p>Dean glances down, noticing that Sam almost immediately lowers his hands to his knees and squeezes his nails down—<em>hard</em>—into the caps.</p><p>This is strange <em>(new)</em> behavior that Dean had never seen outta Sam before this last week—now Sammy does this sorta thing all the time.</p><p>“What are you saying, Dean?” Sammy’s whole tone shifts, again. Back to what it was when Sam blew up and wound up in here <em>(all balled-up)</em> in the first place.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean’s insides wrench with violent unease.</p><p>Reaching down, Dean, makes to detach Sam’s fingers from his knees and takes in the broken-off nails on Sam’s fingers. With, furrowed eyebrows, Dean, turns Sam’s palms over and recognizes the little crescent shapes Sam’s been making on his palms. They’re red and thinly-beaded with dried-up blood.</p><p>Sam tears his hands back in a beat, squeezing them shut. Sam, then, turns his face away refusing to allow Dean to catch his eye.</p><p>Dean swallows, while trying to fight back tears—because he understands the urge to maim and to hurt … That same exact compulsion lives inside of Dean. It will probably, <em>forever</em>, live inside of Dean.</p><p>Dean has prayed over and over that Sammy wouldn’t be plagued with the same inner-demons as he has been—but those prayers to heaven, or whomever is supposed to be listening, <em>(Mom used to say ‘The angels,’ Dean remembers fondly) </em>appear to have gone <strong>unanswered</strong>.</p><p>Like, <em>always</em>.</p><p>“Sammy … what have you <strong>done</strong> to yourself?” Dean whispers, avoiding the question Sam asked him in true, <em>‘Winchester,’</em> fashion.</p><p>Sam clenches his jaw and Dean watches tears form in the rims of Sam’s eyes.</p><p>“Nothing,” Sammy snaps. Then finally turns back to look at Dean—<em>straight in the eyes</em>—and says, “If you wanted to stop having to <em>touch</em> me, all you had to do was say so. You didn’t need to have Dad send me away. I used to think <strong>touch</strong> was how we showed each other love. But you <em>never</em> let me touch you back …” Sam fists his hands into a much tighter clench that looks so painful it has Dean <em>cringing</em>.</p><p>“Sammy—”</p><p>“You <em>like</em> seeing me like this, don’t you, Dean? It’s the only explanation I <strong>have</strong> for any of this—for everything you put me through. You <em>liked</em> making me want your touch! You fucking trained me to <strong>crave</strong> you and then you took it all away … ripped it away so <em>cruel-like</em> …” Sammy sniffles and backs up until he is off of Dean’s lap, and sitting on the cold bathroom tile.</p><p>Horrified, Dean, shakes his head in an effort to convince Sammy otherwise. Because this isn’t what Dean wants. This could never be something Dean even <em>remotely</em> wants to see.</p><p>How can he ever hope to make Sammy understand?</p><p>How can he make Sammy see that Dean is the bad one here?</p><p>That all he wants to do—<em>all he will ever want to do</em>—is protect Sammy?</p><p>“That’s <strong>not</strong> true, Sam! None of that is even <em>remotely</em> true, alright?” Dean tries to insist, but Sam is so goddamn stubborn.</p><p>He can’t see the truth, because Dean has buried and reshaped the truth under lots and lots of deception—<em>of lies!</em></p><p>Shit! Shit! How can he <strong>fix</strong> this?</p><p>“That’s what I thought, too! I believed for all <strong>three</strong> months that you left me at Uncle Bobby’s that it must have been <em>Dad</em> that separated us! I thought that he was lying about you being the one to make the decision … But you never even <em>called</em>, Dean! Not fucking once did you pick up a goddamn phone and ring Uncle Bobby! I got radio silence and abandonment! That’s <strong><em>all</em></strong> I got, Dean! So, you tell me where I’m wrong?! Explain to me, <em>exactly</em>, what I am wrong about!”</p><p>Tears are pouring in streams down Sammy’s cheeks and he wipes them furiously away. Dean suffers the worst heartbreak he’s ever known, watching <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sam like this.</p><p>Dad has Dean caught in this mounting web that will fray and self-destruct if Dean makes even the slightest wrong-move, but he doesn’t know what to do. How can he lie to Dad <em>(who always sees through his every lie)</em> <em>and</em> give Sam the attentions he needs? The same ones that could warp Sam even further?</p><p>It’s all tangled up and messy.</p><p>And all, Dean, can do is watch it all unravel—watch <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy come apart.</p><p>“Dad forbade me from talkin’ to you, alright?! I had to do what I <em>had</em> to do! You don’t understand what Dad made me pretend to <strong>be</strong> while you were gone. You can’t even <em>fathom</em> the pressure I’ve been under!”</p><p>“What <strong>pressure</strong>, Dean?! Why did Dad <strong><em>really</em></strong> send me away? If it wasn’t <em>your idea</em>, then why?! What did <em>I</em> do?!”</p><p>Dean squeezes his eyes in frustration.</p><p>“Nothing, Sam. You didn’t do anything, wrong, alright? It was me …<em> I </em>am wrong. I am the one that’s all twisted up and fucked to hell, alright?! Because what <em>we</em> are … what I have done to us—to you, especially—It ain’t goddamn <em>right</em>, Sammy! And I can’t explain it. I really … I <em>can’t!</em> Because you’re too young! You can’t understand the things I <em>feel</em> and the way I <em>am</em> …”</p><p>Once, Dean, starts—<em>He breaks.</em></p><p>He can’t seem to stop his mouth from spewing out things it shouldn’t. And worst of all, he doesn’t know <strong>how</strong> to mend the things he’s broken—the fractures that now make-up his and Sam’s whole goddamn existence.</p><p>“Try, Dean! Fuckin’ <em>try</em> to explain it! What do you mean <em>‘What you’ve done to us?’ </em>What have you done that’s so bad?! Fucking <strong><em>tell</em></strong> me!” Sammy shouts with his face red and splotched with tears and snot—and Dean finally can’t take this anymore.</p><p>“I fuckin’ <strong><em>touched</em></strong> you Sammy! And not just hugs and cuddles, this goes <em>beyond</em> that! I’m <strong><em>poisonous</em></strong>, alright?! I can’t touch <em>you</em> … I can’t touch <em>Dad</em> … not without makin’ you <em>want</em> me! Not without playin’ with your heart and your soul! Tell me I’m wrong, Sam! Tell me you ain’t plain <strong><em>obsessed</em></strong> with me!” Dean roars, now with tears of his own falling down his cheeks.</p><p>This is the end of it—<em>the end of Dean’s sanity</em>—he’s just cracked. All the rest of the way, toward <strong>hell</strong>.</p><p>“I love you, Dean. I’m not … it’s not <strong>obsession</strong> … I just <strong><em>love</em></strong> you. You’re my big brother and … and why is it <em>wrong</em> to want your touch? What is so <em>wrong</em> about that?”</p><p>Dean wets his dry, cracked lips with his tongue and tries not to break and pull Sam near—It takes every <strong>ounce</strong> <em>(every speck) </em>of control not to pull Sammy straight back into him.</p><p>“It is wrong, because of the <strong><em>kind</em></strong> of touch, Sammy. It’s normal to hug and graze shoulders … or rub backs but … but you’re right about <strong><em>one</em></strong> thing, Sammy,” Dean elaborates, unable to keep fighting his own mind like this, anymore, “I messed up … I <em>trained</em> you too young to <em>crave</em> my touch. That’s where this <strong>all</strong> went wrong and fucked-up. No brother should want another’s touch like <em>you</em> want mine, Sammy. It’s sick—<em>it’s wrong!”</em></p><p>Sam’s eyes are unreadable and that is unnerving for Dean. It’s rare when he can’t just read Sammy’s thoughts—<em>his emotions</em>—but right now (<em>despite Sam’s residual tears)</em> Sam has this wounded expression on his face. It’s almost vacant and offbeat.</p><p>“You said you can’t touch, <strong>Dad</strong>, <em>either,”</em> Dean’s spines tingles with realization—<em>Did he say that?! <strong>Shit</strong>!</em> —as he scrambles for a way out of this, “What does <strong><em>that</em></strong> mean, Dean?”</p><p>“Nothing. It doesn’t mean <em>anything</em>, Sam. I just … The important thing here, is that <strong>Dad</strong> put his foot down with me. He said, I’m not <em>allowed</em> to touch you no more …”</p><p>Sam’s eyes turn wide and Dean can almost see the damage reflected there, right now.</p><p>It’s extensive.</p><p>“That’s what <em>you</em> really think, Dean?” Barely above a whisper, Sam’s, words sting. “That touching me is <em>wrong?”</em></p><p>Dean knows this is wrong. There isn’t a bone in his body that doesn’t <em>scream</em> at him about how wrong this all is, frequently and without let-up.</p><p>“You know that it is, too, Sammy.” Dean takes in the same forlorn expression across Sam’s face and continues, “I kissed you that morning on the mouth, after I made your private-part throb in my palm. You know that wasn’t right, Sammy. You have to know it wasn’t <em>normal …”</em></p><p>All Dean has is <strong>reason</strong>. And sometimes that works with Sammy—<em>others it doesn’t.</em></p><p>Sometimes, reason has <strong>no</strong> consequence where Sammy is concerned and that troubles Dean. More than he could ever admit aloud.</p><p>“Is <em>anything</em> we do, normal, Dean?” Dean doesn’t expect this sort of response and it therefore, catches him off-guard. “I mean, think about it, Dean. Our Mom is <strong>dead</strong>, our Dad is always off huntin’ monsters and we are always stuck in motel rooms. We don’t even have a <strong>normal</strong> place to live … Now you suddenly give a shit about <strong><em>one</em></strong> thing we do, that isn’t normal?”</p><p>This is turning into the same thing that always happens whenever Dean tries to give Sammy <em>‘talks.’</em> Sammy outmaneuvers him—out-argues him—and Dean <em>loses</em>. Like he <strong>always</strong> loses.</p><p>“Sam. This is <em>different</em>,” Dean argues.</p><p>“How?! Just because <strong>Dad</strong> says so?”</p><p>Frustration doesn’t begin to cover what <em>Dean</em> is right now—it’s sexual in part and it’s making him feel prickly all over. Dean is, too, attracted to his little brother. He’s too <em>attached</em> to him—and way too bad at <em>out-thinking</em> Sam, too.</p><p>“No, Sammy! Because it’s a matter of <em>right and wrong</em>. You are gonna understand better when you’re <strong>older</strong>, alright? You’re gonna want <em>girls</em> to touch you there. Not me. And besides, I don’t wanna hurt you, Sammy. I’m just trying to <em>protect</em> you.”</p><p>Sam huffs in frustration and Dean sees his tight fists, turn white, because he is squeezing them <em>so</em> damn hard.</p><p>“Don’t <strong>do</strong> that, Sammy!” Extending his hands, Dean, tries to ease Sam’s fists back open, but they <em>stay</em> in tight clenches.</p><p>“You’re <strong><em>not</em></strong> protecting me, Dean! You’re <em>hurting</em> me! And you don’t even seem to <strong>care</strong> about how much you’re hurting me!”</p><p>Dean gives up trying to unclench Sam’s fists and stares him right in the eyes and says, “You don’t <em>believe</em>, that Sammy. I know you don’t actually believe that I fucking <strong>hate</strong> you, alright?! I have <em>loved</em> you all my life! I’ve taken care of you and I do my damndest to see you right … So, stop sayin’ I don’t care, all the time! I <strong><em>do</em></strong> care!”</p><p>Sam does something that Dean didn’t predict. Sam leans in and meshes their lips together. And it’s tight, hot, and messy but he’s climbing up onto Dean’s lap for a second time. Latching his fingers to Dean’s flannel and holding him here.</p><p>When the kiss breaks apart, Dean’s, eyes flutter back open and his jaw drops. Skin radiates with purely compulsive and unresolved need and aches.</p><p>“You think I’m <strong><em>afraid</em></strong> of pain, Dean? You fuckin’ <em>abandoned</em> me. All I <strong>felt</strong> was pain for months and all I <em>still</em> feel is pain, right now. Because it’s like you’re <strong>here</strong> but <em>not</em> here … and you tolerate me and don’t, every second of every <strong>goddamn</strong> day!”</p><p><em>“Fuck …”</em> Dean whispers realizing in this moment that Sammy is as much Dean’s kryptonite as Dean is Sammy’s.</p><p>This isn’t just what he can persuade out of Sammy—but what Sammy can <strong>persuade</strong> out of Dean.</p><p>Dean would push Sammy into their mattress and take him—<em>right now</em>—if Sammy asked. Dean would feel guilty-as-hell, but he’d do it.  Somewhere inside of Dean the divide that once existed like a gape of <strong>denial</strong> is growing into a sealed-up <em>hole</em> of anti-denial.</p><p>Dean can’t argue this <strong><em>useless</em></strong> point anymore—and he refuses to watch Sammy <strong><em>starve</em></strong>. If Dad works out the lies, he’s now gonna have to tell, then so fucking be it.</p><p>Sammy <strong>needs</strong> this—Sammy needs Dean and that much has been proven by this useless, pointless exchange of so-many-words between them.</p><p>Because nothing at all has been resolved.</p><p>Not even <em>close</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Not a goddamn thing.</em>
</p><p>Dean is more confused than when he first strolled in here.</p><p>“Let me sleep in your bed, Dean, or else I <em>won’t</em> eat. I’ll completely stop and I <strong>will</strong> die. Because <em>I</em> don’t care. If I can’t have you then I don’t wanna be here, anymore.”</p><p>
  <em>And there it is.</em>
</p><p>The last ounce of Dean’s will, being shredded down to itty-bits that will <strong>never</strong> restabilize in his soul.</p><p>“Shit … <em>Sammy</em> … I just want what’s <strong>best</strong> for you. I just want you to <em>have</em> a childhood, Sammy,” Dean pleads with him. Giving this one last, try.</p><p><em>“This</em> is what is best for me, De. Why do you think I can’t <strong>sleep</strong>? Huh? <em>You’re</em> what I need to <strong>sleep</strong> … I’m <em>tired</em>, Dean. I just want to feel like someone <strong>cares</strong>, again. Don’t <em>deny</em> me, Dean. I’m just so tired of feeling so <em>worthless</em> …”</p><p>That hits home in Dean so <em>hard</em>, his head spins.</p><p>Dean <strong><em>only</em></strong> feels worthless, these days. What with, Dad, convincing him that his touch is essentially <em>poison</em> and Sam rebelling so completely like he has … well, Dean, finally just decides that enough is enough.</p><p>
  <em>On both ends.</em>
</p><p>Sammy needs him and that’s that.</p><p>
  <em>That is <strong>all</strong>.</em>
</p><p>“Alright, Sammy. Alright, Kiddo,” Dean relents.</p><p>Climbing to his feet, Dean, encompasses his arms around Sammy’s waist. Sam’s tiny, underweight body is like a doll in Dean’s arms.</p><p>Sammy hasn’t been this easy to carry in years. He’s all bones and muscle ordinarily, but this sad display just goes to show how much things truly have changed in the time they were apart.</p><p>Dean carries Sammy to the bed they always should have shared to begin with and climbs right in, after tucking in Sam.</p><p>Direct contact with Sammy isn’t as taxing as Dean previously thought it might be for him, now. Despite not having healed (mentally) in the time they’ve been kept apart; Dean’s skin doesn’t crawl the way it did when Dad touched him last week.</p><p>In fact, the soft, determined touch of Sam’s little fingers delving underneath Dean’s clothes have him quivering in seconds-flat. Sammy is safety … light … warmth … and Dean’s tortured psyche, can’t find any fault in these tender touches.</p><p>At least, his <em>skin</em> doesn’t anyway.</p><p>Maybe it’s because Dean is <em>dead</em> tired—<em>emotionally drained.</em></p><p>Dean’s muscles are bunched and tight, while his mind is absent and elsewhere.</p><p>Dean is concentrated, heavily, on <em>where</em> to touch Sammy. And his hands draw patterns underneath Sam’s loose-hanging shirt. Dragging his fingers around to rub Sam’s back, Dean, alternates between deep-probing circles and long swooping drags, until Sammy is withering and leaking simpers from his ruddy-pink lips.</p><p>“I love you, Sammy. And don’t you ever doubt that, alright? You hearin’ me?” Dean breathes, between drags of his fingers. Up and back around, easing Sammy’s bone-thin frame.</p><p>Every rib is felt by Dean’s caress. Every bone, every muscle … Sammy is so thin—<em>too thin</em>—and Dean needs to fatten him back up, again. All the pudge (Sammy’s baby-fat) Dean remembers feeling in the past, is completely gone.</p><p>“Mmm, I hear you, De … Love you, too …” Sam half-groans out, monumentally, arching into Dean’s every touch, wherever it travels.</p><p>Dean breathes in deep and ignores any prickles that try to encroach on his skin, as Sam does some exploring of his own. Sam’s fingers trace cuts left behind by Dean’s blade with tentative grazes. Dean winces when Sam looks up at him with this knowing stare that has Dean in tatters—<em>in seconds.</em></p><p>“You did these <em>yourself</em>, didn’t you, De?” Sammy asks in an almost, <strong>statement</strong>.</p><p>Dean swallows and breathes through a rising panic. Dean doesn’t want Sammy to get <strong><em>any</em></strong> ideas—not especially since it’s abundantly clear that Sammy has made <strong>some</strong> wounds of his own with his nail-tips, already.</p><p>Sammy appears to recognize Dean’s panic and inches forward. Another kiss is <em>stolen</em> from Dean’s mouth and he gives in, because it is all he really <strong><em>can</em></strong> do.</p><p>When Sammy eases them both back out of it, Dean, blinks a few times in an effort to pull himself together—and prevent a full-blown <em>hyperventilation</em> right here and now.</p><p>“It’s because you missed me, too. <em>Right</em>, De?”</p><p>The knowledge Dean finds in Sam’s eyes makes his insides ache. Sammy shouldn’t know <strong><em>that</em></strong> kind of pain—<em>that <strong>level</strong> of it, even.</em> He shouldn’t comprehend something so <em>demented</em> and sick—but it seems he does.</p><p>And Dean’s to blame for that.</p><p>For ruining <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy.</p><p>“Time to rest, Sammy,” Dean deflects, easing his own hands out of Sammy’s shirt in order to guide Sammy’s out from underneath Dean’s own.</p><p>Sam frowns with a reluctant shimmer in his eyes. “You don’t <em>have</em> to do that,” Sam sighs.</p><p>“Do what, Sammy?”</p><p>“Protect me from the <strong>truth</strong>,” Sammy mutters.</p><p>Dean wraps his arms around Sammy’s waist and draws him in until they’re close and melted together. “’Course I do, Kiddo. You’re my responsibility and I gotta try and do some semblance of right by you.”</p><p>Sam twists up his mouth and fidgets in Dean’s arms. “You won’t leave me, in the night?” Sam whispers, expectantly.</p><p>“No, Sammy. I ain’t gonna go nowhere. I’m right here and here I’m gonna stay,” Dean promises.</p><p>Sammy snuggles close, twisting his arms and legs around Dean—<em>like he always has</em>—and clings tight like a dang <em>monkey</em>.</p><p>“Goodnight, De.”</p><p>“Night Sammy.”</p><p>It’s minutes—<em>maybe seconds even</em>—and Sammy is fast asleep in Dean’s arms.</p><p>And its perhaps the first night, since their reunion that Sammy doesn’t thrash with night terrors—<em>and Dean notices.</em></p><p>Dean, too, finds sleep eventually<em>—tangled up in and amongst <strong>his</strong> Sammy.</em></p><p>Dean figures, everything can be <em>resolved</em> in the morning.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. part 4; until what remains is shattered.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i> Mornings after, Sammy's birthday, and Dean's proposition for Dad.<br/>Dean is 11.<br/>Sammy is 7-8.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>This is one of the more difficult chapters that I have written for this (thus far!) and I did quite a bit of editing on it, before posting it. I am already working away on the fifth part and hope to have that up in a few days, too. I promise the next part will be another time skip (it's been a while since I've done a real time skip) but this part of their journey is one of the most important. As you will see in upcoming installments! I hope you are enjoying this so far! Grab some tissues and prepare for more pain.</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>part four; until what remains is shattered.</em> </strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I used to think of you</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>as someone who would</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>never ever hurt me.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Then you took me and</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>broke that sure as</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>rain and clouds.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Til I could never be</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>the same again.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xiii. terms and understandings.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, with the morning sun—floods in all this ebbing shame and guilt that Dean was missing last night when he tucked into bed alongside Sammy.</p><p>Somewhere, in the scrape and fracture of listless dreams and tangled-up limbs <em>(and of course the Sammy-hogged blankets)</em> Dean experiences the first splinter of profound ache burst to life in his core.</p><p>Dad warned Dean what he would do if anything even remotely like this were to happen in his absence—and that <em>‘No-Bullshit,’</em> promise scares the shit out of Dean.</p><p>It means, now, he can <em>lose</em> Sammy.</p><p>One night of weakness—might have just cost him <strong>everything</strong>.</p><p>And nothing is worth the loss of Sammy.</p><p>
  <em>Not a <strong>goddamned</strong> thing.</em>
</p><p>Dean struggles to sit upright in this uncomfortable motel bed, racing his hand through his short hair, Dean, stares down at a still-sleeping, Sammy.</p><p>That was the first night <em>(since their forced separation)</em> that Dean can remember resting in some semblance of peace. Not a lick of bad seeped into last night’s dreams—at least, not that he can remember.</p><p>Dean can’t stop thinking about what he did to Sammy—again—<em>last night</em>.</p><p>The things he said and the <strong>truths</strong> he spilled.</p><p>About himself—<em>about Dad.</em></p><p>He just wants to close his eyes and forget about the pulsing ache that he is now going to have to fucking live with.</p><p>Somewhere burrowed in Dean’s twisted-up soul, resides this increasingly messed-up torch he carries for Sam, and God-help-him, this goddamn thing will probably <em>never</em> go away.</p><p>Dean stands from the mattress and heads for the bathroom. Dean <em>needs</em> a shower—<em>it’s the only thing that might clear his head and realign his rampant and guilt-riddled thoughts.</em></p><p>Turning the nob, the water heats to steaming in seconds allowing Dean to step under the stream. Dean allows the sound to attempt to soothe this fresh ache, while trying <em>(hard)</em> not to think about Sam with his body curled around Dean’s own and pliant, pink lips melded to Dean’s mouth.</p><p>But the hot, untended need that Dean woke up with, is still standing at attention, waiting for a firm grip to take <strong><em>care</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Easing down a hand, Dean, ignores the wrench in his gut as he soothes the hollow ache and hisses in the back of his throat.</p><p>Dad was right about one thing—<em>Dean desperately needs to find a chick. </em>Someone non-related, that can help alleviate this bound-up pressure, so that he’ll better be able to <em>push</em> Sammy away next time and not have to experience these disgusting boughs of guilt after <em>every</em> encounter or <strong>burst</strong> of pleasure.</p><p>God! Dean knows there shouldn’t be a <em>‘next time’</em> but Dean also knows that because it’s Sammy—<em>there will be.</em></p><p>Damn Sammy for being <strong><em>his</em></strong> kryptonite!</p><p>Dean has always been the perfect, goddamned soldier, up until this point.</p><p>Stepping out of the shower <em>(when his shame and guilt has been thoroughly washed from his skin and down the drain) </em>Dean towels himself off and looks at his pale reflection in the mirror.</p><p>The dark-smears under each of his eye sockets are still prevalent. And the bones protrude from underneath his sick-thin skin, but there is <em>muscle</em> structured and built on Dean, too.</p><p>Muscle from <em>months</em> on the hunt with Dad.</p><p>Some of that time was spent <strong>sparring</strong> with Dad. Dean has learned a few new things—and Dad wants him to keep up Sammy’s training, too.</p><p>So far there hasn’t been a single day that Dean has been able to persuade Sammy to train with him. Dad will be disappointed <em>(even more than when he sees through Dean’s next set of lies)</em> because of Sam’s lack of kept-up training.</p><p>Dean trains his eyes down and they hover over the cuts he last made, yesterday morning. The fresh, redness stands out like a sore thumb and is quite the eyesore.</p><p>With a thumb, Dean, traces the mark, ignoring the fresh sweep of pain that burns underneath the tortured flesh.</p><p><em>‘I deserve to hurt. I’m poison,’ </em>Dean thinks to himself. A sudden flash of a once, <em>innocent</em> Sammy in his mind’s eye.</p><p>Turning away from the mirror, Dean, heads back into their hotel room. Rifles through his duffel bag, and pulls out a clean flannel and a pair of blue-jeans.</p><p>He changes in record time and rolls up his flannel sleeves, preparing breakfast for Sammy.</p><p>It’s <em>his</em> responsibility to make sure that Sammy eats and Dean plans to fatten him up over the next week. There is no way for Dean to know with any certainty when Dad might swoop on in and pick them back up and hurdle them onto the next location, so, Dean, is going to have to do his best to get Sammy a little more up to Dad’s standards before that time.</p><p>There is no way of knowing just how much <em>‘time apart,’ </em>Dad needs from Dean. Blinking, Dean, shoves the bad thoughts away—tries not to remember the low places he’s sunk to, just to get his Sammy back in his possession.</p><p>If he thinks, <em>too</em>, hard—he might just <strong>break</strong>.</p><p>Dean pours all the ingredients for pancakes into a bowl, and stirs them up with a plastic fork. Using a frypan and a hotplate, Dean, fry’s up the batter and turns them with a spatula, while working out a plan in his head to banish Sam’s notions that the way things were—are the way things <strong><em>should</em></strong> be.</p><p>But he keeps coming up <em>short</em>.</p><p>Sam is far too smart to be tricked and Dean doesn’t know how he is going to be able to <em>touch</em> Sammy without this well-established guilt eating him alive.</p><p>Serving up the finished pancakes on a plate, Dean, switches off the hotplate and goes over to the bed where Sammy is still sound asleep. Taking a deep breath in preparation to <em>touch</em> … Dean drags one of his hands down Sam’s spine.</p><p>Sammy rouses, rubbing sleep from the corners of his eyes, with a tired yawn on his lips.</p><p>“De …” Sam mumbles and struggles upright.</p><p>“Mornin,’ Sammy,” Dean greets with a forced smile that doesn’t quite reach his darkened eyes.</p><p>Sam is clearly too tired to notice and Dean is thankful for that much, at least.</p><p>“Pancakes?” Sammy uses his nose to sus out what’s on the plate, because his eyes are still blurry and half-closed, from what Dean can tell, anyway.</p><p>“Yeah. You need to eat, Sammy. I’m gonna feed you lots, this weekend. Make up for you bein’ underweight. And we also need to do some trainin,’ too.”</p><p>Sam groans, but <em>(to his credit)</em> does as he is told. Wolfing down pancake after pancake without stopping for breath.</p><p>Dean can’t help but laugh a little bit at Sammy’s eagerness. “Ya don’t hafta inhale ‘em, Sammy. You can stop to breathe, ya know.”</p><p>Sammy shoots Dean a semi-glare and keeps forking more into his mouth, until his cheeks bulge like some kinda hamster or something.</p><p>“Alright. When you make yourself sick, I don’t wanna hear no complaints.”</p><p>Dean knows from experience that time spent without food can turn a stomach, just as easy as time spent with <em>too</em> <strong><em>much</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Sammy finishes and sets the plate aside on the nearby nightstand, then wastes absolutely zero time clamoring up onto Dean’s lap and pushes his face into Dean’s defined chest.</p><p>“You smell <em>good</em>, De,” Sammy points out with a sloppy smile plastered across his face.</p><p>Dean ignores the sudden pound of his heart and newly-gathering guilt in his belly from the closeness between them out of nowhere—but he talks himself <em>(internally)</em> through it. Rubs up and down Sammy’s back and squeezes Sam’s bone-thin side with a little nudge.</p><p>It’s a lot, but Dean somehow manages to live with this harsh, build-up of emotion.</p><p>“Yeah, I showered,” Dean acknowledges, sweeping his hand up and down, back and forth, repetitively. Easing the tenseness in Sammy’s familiar muscles.</p><p>Little sighs and simpers fall outta Sammy’s pout, as Sam pushes back into the strong rush of Dean’s massaging fingertips.</p><p>“Do we have to train today, De? Can’t we just lay in bed and <em>touch</em>, instead? I just wanna <em>explore</em> you … find your <strong>weak</strong> spots like you have mine …”</p><p>Dean should have known that Sam would ask him for a day of just <em>‘touches’</em> when the sun came up. Sam has always begged Dean for <em>all</em> the touches Dean can possibly give.</p><p>It’s that neediness that makes this all so wrong. This marked addiction Dean bred in Sam is evident and what Dean and Dad both tried so hard to rid Sam of—<em>and failed.</em></p><p>“No, Sammy. We gotta train. Up you get.”</p><p>Dean swallows down the bile that rises in his throat and guides Sammy down and off of his lap. Then, quickly stands upright, so that Sammy can’t take advantage and scamper back onto his lap a second time.</p><p>Sam groans but <em>(for the first time in an entire week) </em>actually does as he’s told without further complaint.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Dean spends the remainder of the morning, training with Sam out by the woods just out back of their motel.</p><p>The trees out back are thick with gorse and easy to get lost in <em>(if someone were to venture too deep that is)</em> and Dean feels a little more in his element while training.</p><p>Despite the close physical contact and his unnatural attraction to, Sam, Dean, is able to block out all of the noise in his head <em>(all of Dad’s vicious toxic words) </em>and he works with a very <em>‘out-of-shape’</em> Sammy to relearn the various fight techniques, Dad, taught Dean.</p><p>Afterwards, Dean, allows Sam to fire off a few rounds with his gun. Dean has only allowed Sam to shoot a handful of times in the past.</p><p>Dean knows it’s for the best if Sammy has some knowledge of gun use—<em>in case of emergencies</em>—but for the most part, Dean, is gonna keep trying like hell to keep Sammy as innocent as possible for as long as it’s possible.</p><p>Not that that’s working altogether, well.</p><p>By the time dinner rolls around Sammy is looking more than just a little bit tired and rather cranky. They’ve both sustained bruises and other-such injuries from today’s sparring and Dean uses his share of the pain as a way to gear his mind into focus. Keep him from thinking about Dad and how <strong>this</strong> might very-well be the end of his time with Sam <em>(forever)</em> once Dad finds out about the number-one promise Dean’s now broke.</p><p>Sammy eats without any hassle and Dean can only be grateful for the little blessings in life.</p><p>Dean has his eyes trained on Sam, who is now all settled on the couch with his sore body <em>crookedly</em> resting on top of it. Flipping through various random channels on the decade-old motel television.</p><p>“Come <em>cuddle</em> with me, De,” Sam pouts, inclining his head at just the right angle for Dean to see his lower-lip protrude.</p><p>The guilty wrench that’s lodged in Dean swirls and presses until Dean inevitably caves—<em>like he always has</em>—to Sammy’s will.</p><p>Dean is across the room, trying to keep his head out of the gutter by cleaning his gun—but that’s gone to complete <em>shit</em> now.</p><p>“We shouldn’t, Sammy. What if Dad were to walk in?” Dean reasons, but he is more or less just trying to stall the inevitable.</p><p>Sam’s <em>already</em> won, even if Sam doesn’t know it, yet.</p><p>“I don’t care what Dad says, De. If he ever <strong>tries</strong> to take me away from you again, <em>I’ll run,”</em> Sam retorts with a boyish smile forming across his face.</p><p>“No, you <em>won’t</em>, Sammy. Cause if Dad doesn’t give you a thrashin’ for it when he finds you, then<strong><em> I</em></strong> will. This world ain’t safe. You know what is out there and you can’t be runnin’ off, <em>alone,”</em> Dean warns, because he knows it is a very distinct possibility that Sam <em>might</em> be taken to Uncle Bobby’s or Paster Jim’s—<em>or whoever’s</em>—and Dean would be devastated—but that devastation would be even worse if Sam went missing on top of it.</p><p>Sammy makes a face then trains his eyes back on the TV screen.</p><p>Dean is about to give in and head over toward the couch, when Sammy chucks down the remote and makes a beeline straight for Dean.</p><p>In seconds flat, Sammy, has his arms around Dean’s middle and his fingers under the hem of Dean’s flannel. Not minding <em>(it seems)</em> the grass and dirt stains from their earlier sparring, nor the wet-outdoorsy smell that must be clung to Dean’s skin.</p><p>Sammy pushes his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and pushes the bulk of his thin-frame to Dean’s bottom half with a hefty sigh.</p><p>“De? You have three months’ worth of cuddles and touches to make up for,” Sammy reminds him <em>(as if Dean could ever forget how long he was forced to go without <strong>his</strong> Sammy to touch—<strong>Fuck!</strong>)</em> and grazes a few of the cuts <em>sliced</em> into Dean’s middle.</p><p>Dean hisses and tries to hold himself together, but Sammy isn’t making this easy for him. Nothing is <em>ever</em> so easy, with Sammy.</p><p>“You’re gonna be the actual <strong><em>death</em></strong> of me, Sammy … You know that?” Dean utters.</p><p>Reaching down he hoists Sammy off his feet. Carrying Sam over to the bed they now <em>(once again) </em>share, Dean, launches Sam down on top of the sheets. Sheds his shoes and socks and wastes no time climbing up on the mattress, cradling Sammy in the curve of his left arm.</p><p><em>“I’m</em> <em>achy, De …”</em> Sam whispers out with a hint of affliction in those dusky-greenish eyes of his. Sam starts to squirm and Dean feels the <strong><em>stiff</em></strong> <em>poke</em> of Sam’s <em>need</em> meet his leg and knows precisely what kind of <em>‘ache’</em> Sam is unwittingly alluding to.</p><p>Sammy doesn’t know what his words <strong><em>do</em></strong> to Dean and that is the most dangerous <strong>gift</strong> of all—maybe even more dangerous than the <em>poisonous</em> gift Dad thinks Dean wields to assert his <em>will</em>.</p><p>“Sam …” Dean is still trying to get himself reacquainted with <em>light</em> grazes to the skin just underneath Sam’s <strong>t-shirt</strong>—Dean’s psyche threatens to shatter into irreparable pieces when he so-much-as <em>thinks</em> about touching Sam <em>below</em> the belt …</p><p>Things were substantially different when Dean was doped up on pain-killers. All inhibitions were nonexistent and skin was just <strong>skin</strong>—<em>even skin below the belt. </em></p><p>Shit is different for Dean <em>sober</em>. Clearer—and easier to regret and suffer guilt over.</p><p>Sam shouldn’t know what need like <em>this</em> even is, yet. Dean wasn’t even aware of his own until two years ago. And even that awareness wasn’t at <em>this</em> level. Dean hadn’t even known <em>(or thought)</em> to beg for touches—<em>not <strong>there</strong>.</em></p><p>Dean had just suffered with it, like he still suffers with it, now.</p><p>“Please … <em>Please</em>, De …” Sammy brings out his most deadly of pleas. Grating away at <em>every</em> barrier Dean has to thwart these urgencies. There is all this pressure and need filling in the expanding guilt and shame whenever it seeks to grow inside Dean.</p><p>This <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> fair—<em>Sammy isn’t <strong>being</strong> fair to him.</em></p><p><em>"Shh … Shh … Alright, Sammy,</em> <em>Alright,”</em> Dean says, soothingly. Tracing a wandering hand across the soft fabric that makes up Sam’s t-shirt. The more Sammy begs, the less control Dean is able to maintain, right now.</p><p>But Dean is determined to focus, because he isn’t gonna take this any further than touches. God-in-heaven—<em>Dean just <strong>can’t</strong>.</em></p><p>“Only this <em>once</em>. Then it <strong>cannot</strong> happen again, Sammy. <em>Understand</em> <em>me?”</em> Dean attempts reason with Sam—not that he actually believes it will <strong>stick</strong>, but it’s worth a shot, anyway.</p><p>Dean <strong>has</strong> to try.</p><p>Sammy stares up at him with half-lidded eyes and breathes hotly on Dean’s flush skin.</p><p>“But … But, <em>De …”</em> Sammy whines out with this sweet little sound that has Dean weak-kneed and light-headed.</p><p>“No, Sammy. <em>No</em> <em>but’s.</em> I’ll touch you there, <em>this once</em>, then you gotta learn to touch yourself when you ache like <em>this</em>. Okay?” Dean tries for strict, but it just comes out hoarse and shaky. Clearing his throat, Dean presses for Sam’s agreement, “I <em>won’t</em> touch you, unless you make me this promise, Sammy.”</p><p>Sam pouts in that <em>‘Oh-So-Sweet-and-Innocent’ </em>Sammy way, but Dean stands firm. If Dad were to catch them right now—<em>If Dad waltzed through that motel door</em>—Sammy would be gone from him forever.</p><p>And Dean has decided in this moment that it’s not worth the risk of attempting anything of this nature, <em>again.</em></p><p>“F-Fine! I <em>promise</em>, De …” Sammy pants. Clearly in a blind, dark-thrust of seeking need. It’s a cruel way to coax a promise from Sam’s kissable, pink lips. But Sammy is hardly fair to Dean, begging for this—<em>even if it is an <strong>innocent</strong> sort of beg.</em></p><p>Even if Sammy doesn’t fully <em>grasp</em> the concept of what it is, he’s begging <strong>for</strong>.</p><p>A weight lifts off Dean’s shoulders when Sam finally caves and gives his word. At least now Dean will have some sort of leg with which to stand on, when Sam begs him the <em>next</em> time.</p><p> <em>(And Sam will beg.</em> <em>Dean is almost one-hundred percent certain of that.)</em></p><p>One taste of touch to stave off need, is all it takes to grow addicted to it—and Sammy has the addictive-type of personality.</p><p>If Dean is being honest, Dean, knows they <em>both</em> do.</p><p>Which is why quitting Sam the way Dean is well-aware he should, is so goddamned difficult in the first place.</p><p>Dean takes in a deep <em>(shaky)</em> breath. He has to fully clear his head of every bad thought that lives in the hard ache of his psyche. Because he knows that he is bound to descend into a full-fledged panic, if even one thought of Jake or Dad on top of <em>(and inside of him)</em> happens to encroach on Dean’s thoughts while he’s got his hand down Sammy’s bottoms.</p><p>“D-De … Please … You <em>promised</em> …” Sammy tears Dean out of these twisted-up thoughts in a flash.</p><p>With a rush of heat that swells and clenches in him, Dean, seals his mouth over Sammy’s. Smearing a mid-tempo kiss in order to silence Sam and help keep Dean steady, all at once.</p><p>“Okay, Kiddo. Alright. Just hold tight, Sammy. I’m gonna touch you and make it all better. <em>Patience</em> <em>…”</em> Dean soothes while he drags his hand down, lower. Delving his digits past Sam’s waistband, wrapping his fist tight in a curve around the tiny, tumescent flesh.</p><p>Sam makes a tight noise in his throat and bucks forward, driving his need roughly into Dean’s fist.</p><p>“That feelin’ better, Sammy?” Dean lulls, alleviating Sam’s need-stricken heat, one stroke at a time. Letting Sammy ride the pleasure, by moving at odds with Sam’s hip undulations.</p><p>Sam’s face changes. Dean could almost consider Sam docile, now that Sam has talked his way into getting <em>exactly</em> what he has probably craved for close to three months.</p><p>“Y-Yes, De.” Sammy purrs like a kitten, the initially low keens in Sam’s throat mounting and mounting with the seconds as they tick by.</p><p>Dean takes them in and <em>(despite how bad Dean feels about this)</em> revels in Sam’s every sound. It’s like musical notes and coming home for Dean. Hearing such sweet simpers out of his Sammy.</p><p>It’s seconds—<em>probably less even</em>—and Sam and his need are thrumming in Dean’s palm. Hitchy breathes and noises sounding in the air like bliss.</p><p>“There you go. See? It’s not so hard to take care of yourself, Sammy,” Dean croons right up against Sam’s ear between thick, hot breathes of his own.</p><p>Sammy acknowledges his words with a hoarse whine and bodily shudder.</p><p>“Trust me. You will need to <em>‘clear the pipes’</em> a lot more when you’re a little bit older. Or else you’re gonna be cranky and antsy <strong>all</strong> the time.”</p><p>Sam comes down from his high and settles down.</p><p>Dean’s hand pulls up and out of his bottoms.</p><p>“Is that what you do, De?” Sam asks a few minutes later when he has regained his breath and wits.</p><p>Dean experiences a spread of heat across his cheeks, but feels compelled to answer just the same.</p><p>“Yeah, Sammy. I take care of myself.”</p><p>Sammy is all bones and mushy sweat and lucidity against Dean.  It’s been a long time since Dean has witnessed Sammy this calm.</p><p>“I like it when <em>you</em> touch me, De.” Those words shouldn’t cascade chills up Dean’s spine—but they do.</p><p>“Yeah? Well, you still made a promise, Sammy. And we keep our promises, right?” Dean smooths the hair on Sammy’s forehead with a tender sweep.</p><p>Sam doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.</p><p>“Sammy?” Dean sighs.</p><p>“Yes, De. We keep our promises,” Sam finally relents, but his voice sounds off.</p><p>Dean shoves these wrong emotions down deep in his belly and plants a kiss to Sam’s forehead. Dean listens for a long time, until Sammy finds sleep in his arms.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xiv. birthdays &amp; promises.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And Sammy keeps his promise <em>(at least for the most part) </em>and Dean can only be grateful for it.</p><p>The days sorta start blending together in dull sweeps of blurs and sanity.</p><p>Dean does his damndest to keep Sam up on his training. Which means heading out into the woods, outback of the motel each day to spar.</p><p>Sam has gotten more than just a little good at wielding the blade Dad bought him for, Christmas, those three years back.</p><p>Dean can’t help but notice the kid is a natural.</p><p>Maybe Sam has inherited some of Dean and Dad’s <em>‘Winchester-fight-instinct</em>,’ after all.</p><p>It didn’t appear to be all-that natural at first <em>(Sam’s fighting instinct)</em> but maybe Dean just didn’t want to see it, before. Sammy is always gonna be Dean’s little brother. And it is hard for Dean to accept that Sam will grow up, someday.</p><p>Dean’s learned to repress a lot of his emotions <em>(more and more by the day) </em>and Dean hopes that his newfound skill—<em>shutting down</em>—will come in handy, when it comes time for Dean to face-up to Dad.</p><p>Sure, Dad, checks in by phone and issues nonsequential threats <em>(more like reminders</em>) about the set-in-place rules Dean is now expected to follow when it comes to taking care of Sammy, but talks on the phone aren’t the same as talks in person.</p><p>It’s easier to evade Dad over the phone.</p><p>In person, evasion is close to impossible.</p><p>Dad doesn’t come right out and say it, in quite so many words, but he doesn’t have to. Dad gets these tight—<em>almost-hoarse</em>—sounds in his throat and Dean just <strong><em>knows</em></strong> what Dad is alluding to in the moment.</p><p>Dean has kept a tight lid on their funds.</p><p>Shopping with Sammy for groceries every Monday and learning to tell Sam no when Sam tries to purchase anything which falls into the <em>‘too-expensive’ </em>category.</p><p>The wad of bills Dad gave are starting to run low, but Dean has other choices than <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks’</em> for more, now. He’s well aware that he can just ring-up Bobby or Pastor Jim to reach out to Dad if he absolutely has to.</p><p>But it hasn’t come to that quite yet.</p><p>Dean and Sam have enough groceries to last out another week or so. Dean hopes, anyway.</p><p>Then—<em>and only then</em>—will he try to reach out to Dad for more bills.</p><p>C<em>hicks</em> have started to take notice of Dean <em>(more and more wherever he goes)</em> and sometimes, Dean, notices. Others Dean catches Sam glaring at one <em>(or acting less than acceptable around a girl or two)</em> and that’s when Dean will suddenly realize that one is looking at him—with <em>‘that’</em> look.</p><p>Sam and his innate jealous is something that Dean doesn’t quite know how to handle all that well. Dean barely knows how to deal with his own sexuality—his own distinguished needs and wants.</p><p>After all, Dean, spends his nights sharing Sammy’s bed <em>(even though he knows better because Dad could walk through that motel door at any second and catch them)</em> but Dean did try <em>(<strong>once</strong>, since that blow-out fight between him and Sam)</em> to return to sleeping on his own.</p><p>All that got him was hurt, confused looks from Sammy and a headache when he inevitably had-it-out with Sammy about it the following day about Dad and how he shouldn’t get to decide where Sammy does and doesn’t sleep.</p><p>Dean didn’t want to spill even more about his time with Dad to Sammy, accidently.</p><p>So, to keep a lid on, Sammy, Dean, now sleeps at Sammy’s side without question.</p><p>Sometimes, memories of Dad and the last night he had with Dad come creeping in. On those such nights, Dean winds-up soothing his wound-up nerves with a steaming hot shower that scorches his skin as punishment, before he can stomach letting Sammy cling to him all through the night with his monkey-grasp.</p><p>If Sam notices, he doesn’t talk to Dean about it.</p><p>And that is one blessing that Dean can count himself lucky to have.</p><p>Today, is Sam’s birthday.</p><p>May 2<sup>nd</sup>.</p><p>Dean splurged with the last remaining twenty and bought Sam a cake and a present, too. Dean snuck out, well after Sammy was sound asleep last night <em>(somehow managed to untangle their limbs without rousing Sam)</em> and walked the half-mile to, Walmart, solo.</p><p>Chocolate with buttercream frosting has always been Sammy’s favorite, which is something about Sammy, Dad, probably doesn’t even know.</p><p>Not that Dad would give a shit, to be honest.</p><p>Dean purchased a small one and tucked it away in the mini fridge when he got back.</p><p>Despite everything that has been going on these past months, Dean, has been both looking forward to and dreading, today.</p><p>Although, Dean can’t seem to erase the memory of that forlorn promise he made to Sammy about telling him the truth <em>(about Mom)</em> Dean <em>also</em> doesn’t know if Sammy will remember that promise or not.</p><p>He’s hoping that Sammy will have forgotten all about it <em>(after all, Sammy, hasn’t brought up Mom even once since their reunion and he’s been preoccupied with all these other things)</em> and Dean is hoping against hope that it stays that way.</p><p>Dean already called Sammy and himself in sick for the day (while pretending to be Dad) and turned off the bedstand alarm. Letting Sammy sleep in a little.</p><p>Dean has been spending that extra time watching Sammy sleep <em>(while polishing his gun and blade to tamp down his wracked nerves)</em> and memorizing the sight of a newly <em>eight-year-old</em>, Sam, for himself.</p><p>Dean can’t help but to admire the way Sammy has started to fill in, now that he is back to eating like he should be, again. Sam’s handsome face has filled back out around the cheeks and his belly has retained a little bit of its baby-fat.</p><p>If, Dad, does decide to show, at least he won’t be able to say a damn thing about Dean slacking in his care-taking of Sam.</p><p>Dean rang Bobby last night and told him to remind Dad about Sammy’s birthday—<em>but there is no telling whether Dad will get the message or not.</em></p><p>It all depends on where Dad even is and Dean didn’t bother to ask Bobby, because he doesn’t really wanna know.</p><p>It just means that Dean will have to be extra careful about what he does <em>(how he behaves)</em> around Sammy, today. Dad could come strolling through that motel door at any second.</p><p>“De?” Sammy rubs at his eyes and squints through his morning-blur. “What time is it?”</p><p>Dean sets aside his thoroughly (over-polished) gun and the cloth he was cleaning it with. Then, climbs up onto the mattress, pulling a still-sleepy Sammy into his arms.</p><p>“Mornin,’ Sammy,” Dean whispers into Sam’s messy mop of hair, “Happy Birthday, Kiddo.” Dean winds a hand up, under Sammy’s shirt (which is actually an old, hand-me-down of Dean’s) and brushes and kneads the downy-soft skin of Sammy’s belly.</p><p>Sam keens instantly and goes boneless in Dean’s arms.</p><p>“De …” Sam whimpers in this cute, perfect way that has Dean wanting to shove his hand lower—Dean narrowly catches himself when his hand starts to dip of its own accord.</p><p>
  <em>Shit!</em>
</p><p>Dean has to keep himself in check—<em>especially, today!</em></p><p>
  <em>What if Dad comes in?</em>
</p><p>Dean withdraws his hand, reluctantly.</p><p>Sam shivers and glances up at him with a pout.</p><p>“Why’d ya stop, De?” Sammy half-whines out, in-between sighs.</p><p>Dean recovers in a flash, clearing his throat. “‘Cause I got a surprise for you.”</p><p>Sammy’s eyes light up and he appears to forget all about the withdrawn touches, <em>(thankfully)</em> instantly.</p><p>“What? What surprise?” Sammy glances around, expectantly.</p><p>With a laugh, Dean, kisses the top of Sam’s head and climbs off the bed.</p><p>“Close your eyes, Sammy,” Dean orders and Sam wastes no time in playing along.</p><p>Dean strolls over to the small table they eat at and collects a small sloppily-wrapped box from the surface. Heads back over to, Sammy and puts it down on his lap.</p><p>“You can open them, now,” Dean prompts.</p><p>Sammy stares down at the wrapped gift with wide, curious eyes and shreds the paper. Inside, is a hand-held electronic Simpson’s game.</p><p>Sam has been talking Dean’s ear off about it since he saw the commercial on the TV two weeks ago. Apparently, it’s all the rage in Sam’s age-group. A few kids at school have one, according to Sam, and have been playing it every day at lunch.</p><p>“Is this really mine?! Where did you get the money, De?!” The bright, ecstatic look on Sam’s face make spending the last little bit of their money on it—<em>worth it.</em></p><p>“Don’t you worry nothin’ about the cost, Sammy. It’s your birthday. What sorta big brother would I be if I didn’t get you somethin’ you wanted? And yes, it is really yours.”</p><p>Sam throws the box aside and launches himself at Dean.</p><p>Unprepared, Dean, lands with a <em>‘oof,’</em> onto their mattress and winds his arms around Sam’s waist. Drinking in the soapy, kid-like scent that is uniquely Sammy in order to help ease his antsy skin into the unexpected feel of Sam—<em>warm and pressed against him.</em></p><p>“I love you, De!” Sammy squeals.</p><p>“I love you, too, Sammy,” Dean says back, kissing an exposed patch of Sammy’s neck. While, also trying to steady the relentless pounds of his own heart.</p><p>Sammy does, finally, pull off of Dean and return to his new toy. Unboxes it carefully, pulls out the batteries, and stuffs them in the back.</p><p>Sam has the game booted in less than a minute.</p><p>Dean sits back up and folds his legs, watching Sam with a warm smile on his face. This is the happiest Dean has seen <em>his</em> Sammy since their reunion.</p><p>Maybe the happiest he’s <strong><em>ever</em></strong> seen Sammy.</p><p>For the first time in a long time Dean actually feels like he might have done <em>something</em> right, after all.</p><p>Dean’s childhood might be completely over <em>(despite Dean’s young age) </em>and he might have skin that often feels like sins and fire, but <em>Sammy</em> is still—<em>for all intents and purposes</em>—a kid.</p><p>Sammy still has innocence and this, right here, proves that to Dean.</p><p>Sammy can still get all red-faced and joyful over a simple little handheld game, while Dean can’t even bring himself to engage with other classmates about age-appropriate things like trading cards and football.</p><p>Dean is too fucked-up to even <em>pretend</em> at normal.</p><p>Normal is all relative though <em>(and Dean knows it)</em> but it would be nice to fit in for once. Somewhere—<em>anywhere</em>—they venture.</p><p>Sammy is the only person Dean fits in with. Maybe that is why Dean clings to his Sammy so damn hard.</p><p>What else would he have with Sam gone?</p><p>Dad proved to Dean in the time he spent on the road with him that hunting is <em>not</em> enough.</p><p>Hunting leaves behind an emptiness—<em>while</em>, <em>Sam, makes Dean <strong>whole</strong>.</em></p><p>“You’re the best, De!” Sammy looks up from his hand-held to throw Dean a lopsided grin brimming to the max with gratitude and Dean’s heart pumps faster with a loud, thrumming beat.</p><p>“I try, Kiddo,” Dean admits and grins.</p><p>Sam beams right back at Dean and returns his attention to the tiny screen.</p><p>Dean leaves Sammy to play and settles in a chair he drags over, next to their bed. Returns to cleaning his gun <em>(even though its really damn clean by now)</em> because his hands have started to tremble.</p><p>It’s mild, but Dean knows if he doesn’t do something about it—he’ll wind up in a panicky state.</p><p>These are nerves about Dad. Because Dad might come back for Sam’s birthday.</p><p>Dad could waltz through that door at any given second and that scares the <em>shit</em> out of Dean.</p><p>Has Dad forgiven him for their last night, yet? That encounter will stay between Dad and Dean until the day they die, but Dean has hope that Dad will—<em>one day—</em>forgive him for it.</p><p>It was just weakness—<em>and fear.</em></p><p><em>Mostly,</em> <strong><em>fear</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>Fear that Dad was going to take Sammy away forever.</p><p>Dean still retains that fear and the worst part of all of this is that Dean knows if Dad tries to take Sammy from him again—<em>he’ll play to Dad’s weakness in a heartbeat.</em></p><p>Dean would use his <em>‘demon-like qualities’</em> to his advantage and lure Dad between the sheets. No-holds-barred.</p><p>And that, most of all, scares Dean.</p><p>It scares Dean that when it comes to Sammy—<em>no questions asked</em>—Dean will do <strong>anything</strong>, no matter how twisted <em>(how deranged)</em> just to <strong>keep</strong> him.</p><p>“Why do you do that so much?” Sam startles Dean out of his steely thoughts.</p><p>Dean lost track of time in his head while he mulled over all the shit inside of it, about Dad.</p><p>“Do <strong>what</strong>?” Dean asks, absently.</p><p>“Clean your <strong>gun</strong>.” Dean notices that Sam has lowered his game and is watching Dean with intensely focused eyes.</p><p>Dean closes his eyes to stave off the prickles that shoot ripples underneath his skin.</p><p>Dean can’t tell Sammy the truth. The truth is too much for Sam and his <em>innocence</em> to take.</p><p>“Just a nervous habit, I guess.” The lie is smooth and easy to tell, because its really only a half-lie. It’s half <em>true</em>.</p><p>Cleaning his gun <strong>is</strong> a nervous habit.</p><p>The other half is that it helps stave off all of Dean’s countless inner-demons. Keeps him, cool, calm, and collected.</p><p>“Oh.” Sammy seems to want to ask more about it, but <em>(thankfully) </em>doesn’t.</p><p>Dean has noticed that Sammy has gotten a little better about asking less questions. Sam can still occasionally go off on <em>‘question-tirades’ </em>from time to time, but not so much as he did before their separation.</p><p>“Yeah.” Dean puts his gun back down on the nightstand and forces an innocuous smile.</p><p>Dean’s hands are no longer shaking. <em>Thank God.</em></p><p>“Are you gonna tell me about, Mom, Dean?”</p><p>There it is—<em>out of nowhere</em>—the question Dean’s been dreading hearing out of Sam’s mouth <em>all</em> morning.</p><p>And, damn, if Dean’s hands don’t <em>immediately</em> start shaking again.</p><p>
  <em>Well, Shit.</em>
</p><p>So much for Sammy forgetting<em>—as if Dean could ever catch a lucky break.</em></p><p>Dean swallows around a lump and stands up from the hard-backed chair he is sitting on. Plops down next to Sammy on the mattress, instead.</p><p>“Sam, are you sure you <strong>want</strong> me to tell you?” Dean wishes that Sam would just leave this alone. Just for a few more <em>years</em>.</p><p>Because once the truth is rattling around in your head—it <strong>never</strong> leaves. Dean knows <em>that</em> better than anyone.</p><p>“Yes, De,” Sam says it so simply. Without even seeming to think about what he’s asking—or the consequences <strong><em>of</em></strong> the asking.</p><p>Dean winds an arm around Sam’s waist and rubs the length of it. Up and down, in slow, easing circles.</p><p>This is gonna be <strong><em>hell</em></strong> for Dean.</p><p>“You can’t unknow anything once you know <em>everything</em>,” Dean warns again, wanting to be sure that Sam understands precisely what he is asking out of Dean.</p><p>“I know, Dean. I <em>want</em> to know, okay? She was <em>my</em> mom, too. And I’m tired of being in the dark all the time. It isn’t fair.”</p><p>Dean grimaces, then relents with a nod of his head. Sammy is just the type to latch onto things and never let them go. Always has been, probably always will be.</p><p>“Mom didn’t just die, Sam. She was murdered,” Dean explains, searching Sam’s eyes to see the effect this is having.</p><p>Sam crinkles his mouth in an unreadable sort of way.</p><p>“Murdered by who?”</p><p>Dean sighs. “Not by a who, Sammy. By a <em>what.”</em></p><p>That makes Sammy widen his eyes a little and Dean takes this opportunity to continue working his fingers into Sammy’s spine.</p><p>“A demon with yellow-eyes killed Mom. Dad saw it for himself.” Dean tells Sam the rest with a shaky, off-kilter tone.</p><p>Sam’s eyes stay enlarged and his head bows. Dean can’t tell with any certainty <em>what</em> Sammy is thinking—but Dean wishes that he could.</p><p>“So, that’s why Dad hunts monsters? Why we travel around all the time?” Sam clarifies.</p><p>“Yeah, Sammy. Now you know what I know about everything. Does it make you <em>feel</em> better?”</p><p>Sammy doesn’t look relieved—at least not to Dean. Sam just looks downtrodden.</p><p>“Not much, no. But at least you aren’t gonna lie to me about it anymore.” Sammy shifts a little and catches Dean’s eyes.</p><p>“No, Sammy. I ain’t gonna lie about it no more. There wouldn’t be a point to that now. Would there?” Dean swears, <em>sometimes</em>, that Sammy is a little too cunning for his own good.</p><p>Maybe Dean is the reason for that. Maybe the way he used to let Sammy get away with everything <em>(hell, he still doe for the most part even)</em> is why Sammy is so spoiled.</p><p>“No, not really,” Sammy agrees with Dean.</p><p>Sammy tilts up his chin and kisses Dean. Dean returns the kiss with hesitance, keeping his ears trained on the outside noises <em>(hoping and praying that Dad won’t just waltz through the door) </em>while also moving his lips in sweeping, gentle motions.</p><p>When the kiss breaks, Dean, forces back the intense sensations that rise up in his belly like a potent storm. It’s unfair—<em>this unhealthy pull Sammy has on him.</em></p><p>“Play your game, now, Sammy. Don’t worry anymore about Mom, okay?”</p><p>Dean is off the bed before Sammy can protest and back in the chair, cooling down from that blood-riling kiss.</p><p>Sam’s mouth sets into a straight line and to Dean’s relief, <em>Sammy obeys.</em></p><p>“Yes, De.” Lifting the discarded game off the bedsheets, Sammy, starts tapping away at the buttons, again. The moment broken.</p><p>This didn’t go as badly as Dean believed that it might.</p><p>Dean expected there to be some kind of breakdown from Sammy <em>(although there still always could be)</em> and maybe even a whole crap-ton of questions—because Sam usually can’t help himself when it comes to asking and knowing things.</p><p>But this was <em>fairly</em> easy.</p><p>Way too goddamned easy and though Dean lifts his gun and starts cleaning with renewed vigor, he is still waiting for the fallout.</p><p>Listening for the familiar bootsteps of Dad’s—and waiting for Sam to put the game back down and rattle off <em>more</em> questions.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>None come.</em> </strong>
</p><p>Dean waits for a good half-hour, with his back rigid and ears pricked.</p><p>Sammy plays his game in this eerie sorta silence, that makes Dean almost wish Sammy was pelting him with unanswerable questions right now.</p><p>Dean puts down his gun, through with cleaning it for now, and decides to strike up a conversation. Knowing he is probably gonna regret it—but, what the hell?</p><p>“Sammy? You sure you’re alright, Kiddo?”</p><p>Only now, does Dean notice the harsh clench of Sammy’s nails biting into his knee on one side.</p><p>Sammy is still in his boxers and nightshirt, not having dressed when he woke <em>(like he normally does)</em> so his knees are bare and from what Dean can tell, there are harsh indents speared into both of Sammy’s knees, put there by both of Sammy’s nails, over time.</p><p>The cuts are nasty and look painful—Dean’s stomach goes into a churn as he realizes how <strong>blind</strong> he has been.</p><p>Sammy isn’t better … not <em>fully</em> … There are still patches of dark seedy pain rolling around in Sammy’s head, somewhere.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“I’m fine, Dean.” The lie is smooth and easily falls off of Sammy’s deceptive tongue. Where did the kid learn to lie so well? Off Dean?</p><p>
  <em>Dean wonders.</em>
</p><p>In the blink of an eye, Dean, is off the chair and up on the motel mattress. Dean lifts up the game out of Sammy’s other hand, and un-digs Sam’s left out of his knee before it can inflict anymore painful damage.</p><p>“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, Sammy. Cause I know for a fact it ain’t, <em>‘All good.’</em> Otherwise, you wouldn’t have these gashes all over your knees, now <strong>would</strong> you?” Hm?”</p><p>Dean can’t help but feel that he is playing the hypocrite. After all, he makes cuts into his own skin for comfort—<em>slashes</em>—and makes himself <strong>less</strong> beautiful. Less handsome so maybe he’ll stop being so irresistible to Dad—<em>and Sammy</em>—but it doesn’t seem to be working.</p><p>
  <em>Nothing works.</em>
</p><p>Sammy avoids eye contact, but doesn’t speak up. Sam is suddenly quiet as the dead.</p><p>“Sammy? Come on, Kiddo. Talk to me. I’m not gonna be mad at ya, I promise.”</p><p>Sam glances up at him with this reluctant-like look in his eye. Almost like he’s waiting for some kind of explosion from Dean—some kind of <strong>repercussion</strong>.</p><p>“What happened, Dean?” Sammy asks out of nowhere—and Dean can’t say he actually understands what Sam is truly asking from him, right now.</p><p>“What happened with <strong>what</strong>, Sammy? You are gonna have to be a <em>little</em> more specific, Kiddo.”</p><p>“With <em>you</em>, I mean. I feel … <em>I mean …”</em> Sam appears frustrated and unable to construe his thoughts properly.</p><p>Dean notices but isn’t sure he really <strong>wants</strong> to know what Sammy is about to ask him.</p><p>“What, Sammy? What do you <em>feel?”</em> Dean uses his uncanny ability to read Sammy’s emotions. Let’s the profound sadness of Sammy’s sink into his own bones, like little shards of glass piercing and shredding at Dean’s innards.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Sammy’s emotions are downright debilitating ….</p><p>“You’re off, De … and I don’t think it’s only Dad … or only from touchin’ me where you <strong>shouldn’t</strong> …” Sammy describes in hushed little sighs.</p><p>Dean snaps out of Sammy’s emotion-bubble and scrambles for stability. Anything to put on a brave face for Sammy’s sake. Cause God-help-him, if Sammy is referring to what Dean <strong>thinks</strong> Sammy is referring to, then he absolutely cannot break apart … Sammy can <strong>never</strong> know the full extent of what Dean has gone through.</p><p><strong>Ever</strong>.</p><p>Not what was behind the beating from Dad—not <em>‘Turnin Tricks’</em> with Jake—and certainly not the night spent <strong><em>with</em></strong> Dad.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Dean is so-beyond <em>fucked</em> if he can’t hold himself together—if he can’t manifest a way <strong>out</strong> of this, gnarled-up mess.</p><p>Dean breathes through his fast-coming emotions and blinks a couple times for clarity.</p><p>“I am just nervous, Sammy. I’ve broken Dad’s rules with you. And I’m no good at lyin’ to him. You know how Dad is. Of course, I’m a little different, Sammy. <em>I’m</em> <em>scared.”</em></p><p>Dean never would have admitted he was afraid <em>(not ordinarily and certainly not to Sammy)</em> but these are desperate times and Dean must sink to desperate measures <strong>just</strong> to stay afloat.</p><p>Sam doesn’t appear to be all-that convinced, however, and challenges Dean’s word.</p><p>“It feels like … like you’re off-kilter … I don’t know the <em>words</em> to describe it, Dean,” Sam quirks his mouth at the corner and gives Dean this wounded-puppy stare that has Dean’s insides melting to goo.</p><p>Dean thinks he might actually implode—Sammy’s instincts are good, just like Dean’s … Why hasn’t Dean ever <strong>noticed</strong> that before?</p><p>Dean breathes in deep, puzzles out what to do in his head, then attempts to answer. Choosing his next words very carefully.</p><p>“I am <em>alright</em>, Sammy. It’s you I’m worried ‘bout. <em>You</em> keep hurtin’ yourself. And I don’t like seein’ you hurtin’ Sammy.”</p><p>Sam takes this moment to reach out his hand and lift the hem of Dean’s shirt. Revealing Dean’s scars to the open air and Sam’s own eyes in broad daylight for the first time—<em>before Dean can make the conscious decision to stop him!</em></p><p>“You have been, <em>too</em>, De. You didn’t <strong>used</strong> to have all these. Not before <em>Dad</em> sent me away …”</p><p>Dean sucks in his bottom lip and gnaws on the skin for grounding. He’s tryin’ like hell right now to hold it all together.</p><p>And maybe Sammy can see right <em>through</em> that—maybe he’s not been doing a good enough job at being a stone-stiff wall like he promised himself <em>(and Dad for that matter) </em>that he would.</p><p>
  <em>The fuck if Dean knows.</em>
</p><p>What Dean <strong>does</strong> know, is that Sammy is Sammy and that he isn’t gonna give this up for <strong>nothing</strong>. It’s Sammy’s birthday and Sam knows he can get away with a hell of a lot more than usual because of that.</p><p>Sam is taking <strong><em>advantage</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean pulls his shirt loose from Sammy’s grip. Forces the flannel back in place where it belongs and tries to make his eyes dead.</p><p>Remote and imperceptible.</p><p>“What did Dad do to you? Did Dad <em>make</em> you like this, De?” Sam is putting together pieces that Dean most <em>definitely</em> doesn’t want Sam piecing up.</p><p>The pieces are deep and out of eye view for a goddamn <strong>reason</strong>—and damn if Sammy isn’t <em>wrecking</em> shit by trying to<em> dig and reach and pull</em> for them.</p><p>“This ain’t about, Dad, Sam. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, alright?”</p><p>And it’s <em>not</em>.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Not entirely.</em> </strong>
</p><p>The cuts are a little about Dad but they are mostly about <strong>Dean</strong>. Who <em>Dean</em> is becoming—and who Dean <strong>wants</strong> to be.</p><p>The settle of swirls—<em>of ache</em>—are everywhere and Dean realizes he is going to find himself <strong>crushed</strong> by them if he doesn’t do something.</p><p> <em>Say something …</em></p><p>Stop this messed up train of Sammy’s thoughts from taking this any deeper—<em>any further than it ought to.</em></p><p>“Don’t I?” Sam asks with all of that <em>‘Sammy-knowledge’</em> that Dean could do without.</p><p>Another deep breath.</p><p>“No, Sam. Not this time, you don’t. Alright? <em>I missed you.</em> Plain as that,” Dean persists.</p><p>Sammy is persistent, too, and the more lies Dean keeps trying to convince Sam of, the more Sammy seems to be determining for <strong>himself</strong> about the way things actually are.</p><p>“If these cuts were about <em>missing</em> me, then why do you still make them, De? I’m <strong>right</strong> here. You still make <em>fresh</em> ones—you haven’t stopped.”</p><p>It takes every ounce of concentration for Dean to keep his wits about him—To keep from screaming to the heavens—<em>to the blasted angels that Dean is starting to question whether they actually exist! </em></p><p>
  <em>Damn this kid! Seriously!</em>
</p><p>“You said all your problems stemmed from me bein’ gone, too, Sammy. I just found you digging your nails into your kneecaps, so with that reasonin’ I could deduce you’re lyin’ to me, too.”</p><p>Dean watches Sam’s eyes falter and jaw clench. The air grows thick and so heavy it’s difficult to breathe in—<em>but Sam is caught. </em></p><p>Tangled all up in his own helping of <em>‘Sammy-logic.’ </em></p><p>“I …” Sam swallows. Fresh tears well up in those perfect, greenish-brown eyes of his.</p><p>
  <em>Goddamn it all to kingdom-fucking-come … </em>
</p><p>Dean can’t <em>stand</em> it when <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy cries.</p><p>This may-well be <em>Sammy’s</em> birthday—but he is absolutely <strong><em>not</em></strong> allowed to cry on it—even if he fucking <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to.</p><p>
  <em>No way no how!</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Especially not because, it is, his damn birthday!</em> </strong>
</p><p>Today is supposed to be <strong>happy</strong>—and Dean and his personal shit is now fucking that up for Sam, too.</p><p>Like he fucks <strong>everything</strong> up …</p><p>Dean is about to say something else, but Sammy beats him to that particular punch.</p><p>“You said Dad might take me away. That … that if he catches us … catches you sleepin’ next to me, that I will be sent away again,” Sam habitually digs his nails back into his kneecap and Dean watches with sickness in his belly.</p><p><em>Oh,</em> <strong><em>hell</em></strong><em>!</em></p><p>“If Dad is just gonna rip me away again, then I’ll be <strong>alone</strong>—without you, De. And I … I don’t wanna <em>be</em> alone, again. It was so awful, last time De. Such a <strong>terrible</strong> feeling …”</p><p>Dean realizes his own eyes are now brimming with tears threatening to break-free from Sammy’s cold-edged, practically <strong>lifeless</strong> words. And damn if this isn’t the worst sort of pain Dean’s ever been faced with—<em>ever experienced.</em></p><p>It’s like the muscles of his heart have up and died in his chest. It’s like pain and certain <strong>death</strong> all rolled into one.</p><p>“Shit … Sammy … I’m <em>so</em> sorry, Kiddo.” Dean makes a split-second decision to yank Sammy onto his lap and hold him tight. It’s pure instinct, like a parent would their <em>tearful</em> child. It’s the first pure thing Dean has done since <strong>getting</strong> Sammy back.</p><p>Sammy <em>needs</em> this. Needs to feel loved and adored—<em>like he fucking matters</em>—because he does.</p><p>Sammy is Dean’s whole damn world and Dean wishes he could construe that—<em>somehow</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Someway.</em>
</p><p>Sammy breaks apart in Dean’s arms. Tears come like ocean-waves and there ain’t no stopping it.</p><p>Dean swallows his own pain until it makes this giant-ass knot in his stomach the size of planet Earth itself.</p><p>And Dean just clings to Sammy.</p><p>Full-on, clings.</p><p>“That’s what I want for my birthday, De …” Sammy says in a whisper of urgency.</p><p>“What, Sammy? What do you want?” Dean asks Sam while scratching his fingers against Sammy’s scalp.</p><p>“I want to stay with you, De. I want you to promise you won’t let Dad take me away again. Promise me … pinky swear it …” Sam urges and Dean’s heart tanks.</p><p>“W-What? Sam … You <strong>know</strong> I can’t—”</p><p>“Swear it, De. Swear he <strong><em>won’t</em></strong> take me … That it will <strong>always</strong> be us. And you will <em>keep</em> me. <em>Swear!”</em> Sam draws back and looks Dean dead in the eye—<em>and Sam means it.</em></p><p>Dean can see that this is something that has really been bothering Sammy.</p><p><strong><em>His </em></strong><em>Sammy</em>.</p><p>And Dean opens his mouth in a little gape, because he doesn’t know <strong>what</strong> to say.</p><p>Dean can’t promise <strong><em>this</em></strong>. Dean can’t predict what Dad is gonna do and there is no telling what sorta mood Dad is gonna be in when Dean lays eyes on him next. Dad could take Sammy <strong><em>today</em></strong> if he does come home for Sammy’s birthday and find them in a position such as <strong>this</strong> one.</p><p>Dad’s threat still lingers like a sore-ache in the back of Dean’s head somewhere.</p><p>Any day could be Dean’s last, <em>ever,</em> with Sammy. Any instant could be their <strong>very</strong> last …</p><p>
  <em>Shit. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Double--Triple fucking Shit … </em>
</p><p>Because Sam is now giving him these <em>patented ‘Sammy Puppy-Dog’</em> eyes and damn it all to hell if they ain’t doin’ a number on Dean’s <em>‘Only-for-Sammy,’ </em>beating, heart.</p><p>Sam holds out his pinkie, expectantly, with tears smearing his cheeks and sniffles coming from his nose every couple of seconds.</p><p>“Fine, Sammy. I promise. Okay?” Dean decides, right here and now, that he will find a way to <strong><em>keep</em></strong> this promise.</p><p>Come hell or high-water, Dean, isn’t gonna let Dad take <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy—<em>ever again.</em></p><p>Over Dean’s <em>dead-<strong>fucking</strong>-body.</em></p><p>Dean connects their pinkies and gives a little shake of his wrist. This isn’t enough for, Sammy, though.</p><p>Dean is caught off-guard when Sam leans in and captures his lips, stealing a kiss that makes Dean all stormy with need—<em>and heated under the collar.</em></p><p>The pleasant weight of Sammy in his lap, isn’t helping none, either.</p><p>Dean is the one to pull back from both the kiss and the promise with dark, heavy eyes and a newly-added weight of burden on his shoulders.</p><p>Sam climbs off of Dean and lets the line of questioning go <em>(returning to his birthday gift)</em> but Dean stays right where Sam left him—glued to this spot for a long time after.</p><p>Trying to work out, how precisely that he is gonna be able to win Dad over on this.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xv. the last conceivable thread of break.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dad shows up—<em>much to Dean’s surprise</em>—and his mood isn’t at all sour, like Dean thought it might be.</p><p>But Sammy <strong><em>is</em></strong> Dad’s favorite, even if Dad hasn’t ever admitted it—<em>Sam is.</em></p><p>Dean can’t say that he blames Dad for choosing Sammy as his favorite son.</p><p>After all, Dean, is a literal <strong>scourge</strong> on their family tree.</p><p>Not only has Dean tempted Dad one too many times, but Dean’s <em>wicked</em> on the inside—Dean can feel it there, inside of him, like this twisted-up thing that never <em>fully</em> goes away.</p><p>Dad comes bustling through their hotel door with a <em>gift</em> for Sammy and everything. Hell, it’s more than Dean got for his last birthday <em>(before Dean started making all of these bad decisions)</em> but Dean can say with explicit <strong>honesty</strong> that he is thankful for Dad’s good mood.</p><p>It means Dean stands a <em>chance</em>.</p><p>A <strong>good</strong> chance, tonight.</p><p>Dad doesn’t offer Dean a hug when he comes through that door—doesn’t even really do more than grunt and nod in Dean’s general direction—but it’s enough for Dean to have hope.</p><p>Even the <em>tiniest</em> ounce of it.</p><p>Dad and Dean gather around the small table, some time after Dad arrives to watch Sammy blow out his candles.</p><p>Dean teases Sammy about his <em>wish (but Sammy won’t tell and Dean doesn’t push)</em> and Dad laughs with good humor.</p><p>All is as it should be—<em>at least on the outside.</em></p><p>Anyone looking in would think they were a normal, happy family. A family that is thriving and <strong>together</strong>.</p><p>Like a unit of normalcy all bundled into one package—<em>one bow.</em></p><p>But Dean knows the truth will be made evident once Sammy is nestled into bed for the night.</p><p>And sleep does come, <em>for Sammy. </em></p><p>This time, Dean, sits by Sammy’s bedside and urges Sammy to sleep with a bedtime story, under the watchful eyes of Dad. Dean feels a distant prickle on his neck that alerts him to those eyes.</p><p>Dad is pretending to scribble in his journal <em>(making some sorta notes or another)</em> but Dean knows Dad is watching—<em>waiting for Dean to be inappropriate with Sammy.</em></p><p>To touch where he <strong>shouldn’t</strong> be.</p><p>With, Sammy, <em>(finally)</em> sound asleep, Dean, can do what needs to be done.</p><p>Dean releases a deep breath and takes the chair back over to the small table for eating.</p><p>Sits down across from Dad and meets Dad’s eyes.</p><p>Dad has been drinking, but he isn’t <em>wasted</em>—<em>not like the last time Dean played these games.</em></p><p>“You been good while I’ve been huntin,’ Dean?” Dad wastes no time in getting down to <em>‘real talk’ </em>and Dean is gnarled-up internally—<em>but plays along.</em></p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Dean catches Dad’s solid eyes and tries to hold his ground, firm.</p><p>Dad lifts his half-drank beer, tilts it to his lips, and takes down a few gulps.</p><p>“What did I say ‘bout lyin,’ Boy?” This familiar sternness in Dad’s voice, has Dean in tatters and shreds.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“What truth do you want outta me, Dad?” Dean quirks a brow—<em>tries his best at coy</em>.</p><p>“You <strong>know</strong> what truth, Dean,” Dad says, unmoved by Dean’s antics.</p><p>Dean sets his jaw.</p><p>“Look, Dad. I made Sammy a <em>promise</em>, okay?”</p><p>“An’ what sorta <strong>promise</strong> was that?” Dad looks humored—but there is a dangerous <em>glint</em> to that humor.</p><p>“The kind neither of us <strong>ever</strong> break to each other. And I promised him that you won’t <strong>separate</strong> us, again. It messed him up real bad last time, Dad. You saw the state of him at Bobby’s … We almost <strong>lost</strong> him.”</p><p>Dad’s eyes go hard as coal and dangerous as iced-up roads in the winter. And Dean sees Dad’s knuckles go real tight around his beer bottle.</p><p>“Better he be lost than suffer <strong>your</strong> touch, Dean,” Dad says it with such a painstaking realness that Dean is instantly cut to the bone.</p><p>Dean experiences his hands start to tremble, anew, and he has to breathe through it a couple times in order to regain his voice again.</p><p>Dad’s words linger in Dean and sting like fire.</p><p>It hurts knowing Dad thinks of him as the worst sorta fate for anyone to happen upon.</p><p>Dean decides to take a new angle with his words—<em>Digs in and tries for home.</em></p><p>“And how have <strong>you</strong> been doin,’ Dad? Without <em>my</em> touch? Hm?” Dean rises from his chair and goes to stand next to Dad. With one of his <em>‘tainted’</em> hands, Dean, reaches out and drags along the stubble at Dad’s cheek.</p><p>Despite a very stubborn attempt at complacency—<em>Dad shivers.</em></p><p>“Dean,” Dad warns in his most cinched tone.</p><p>“You been <em>achin,’</em> Dad? Warmin’ the bed of every woman you run across? Chasin’ <em>my</em> touch? Chasin’ the things that only<em> I</em> can make you feel?”</p><p>Dean has to check out of his mind for a second—has to think about Sammy.</p><p>
  <em>Warm. Loving. <strong>Sammy</strong>.</em>
</p><p>Because this is, too, close to the bar—this invisible line that Dean has drawn in his head of places he <strong><em>won’t</em></strong> be venturing anymore.</p><p>Dad isn’t to be trifled with, not by <strong>anyone</strong>—and especially <strong>not</strong> by Dean.</p><p>This is a dangerous—<strong><em>dangerous</em></strong>—path to take. And someone could get <em>burned</em>—and Dean is well aware that that <em>‘someone’ </em>will probably be him.</p><p>Yet, it’s like something keeps going off-center in Dean whenever he is in the same room with Dad. Like he can’t, fucking, <strong><em>help</em></strong> himself.</p><p>There’s this twisted-up thing between them and it needs to stop—<em>it has to</em>—but Dean keeps stroking this fester.</p><p><em>This hankering</em>.</p><p>It’s all he <strong>can</strong> do to convince Dad that Sammy <em>should</em> remain in his charge.</p><p>
  <em>Not Bobby’s. Not Pastor Jim’s.</em>
</p><p><strong>Just</strong>, <em>Dean’s</em>.</p><p><em>“Stop it, Dean,”</em> Dad says through teeth, clenched-up tight.</p><p>Dean takes this opportunity to straddle Dad. Press their crotches together and drink in Dad’s dark-pooled eyes with his own—<em>right up close and personal.</em></p><p>With a slow maneuver, Dean, grinds his hips down against Dad’s—extracting the tiniest of sounds from Dad’s throat.</p><p><em>“Make me, Dad</em>. Tell me that your <em>hand</em> or a woman’s <strong><em>hole</em></strong> can help alleviate what<strong><em> I</em></strong> woke in you. Tell me that and <em>shove</em> me off. Or take what we <strong>both</strong> know you need and let <em>me</em> keep Sammy.”</p><p>Dean has to steady himself when Dad attaches his strong, hunt-chaffed hands to either of Dean’s sides. Has to breathe and tell himself that this—<em>all of this continued fuckery</em>—is for Sammy.</p><p>That if Dad pushes inside of him—if Dad takes his raw appetite out on, Dean—then so be it.</p><p>Because <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong> will benefit.</p><p>Dean’s well-past destruction.</p><p>Dean is a walking stain on creation, itself.</p><p>Jake and Dad combined have made damn sure of that.</p><p>Dean is worth absolutely <em>nothing</em>, now.</p><p>Sammy is the only thing left that is <strong>still</strong> worth protecting in Dean’s eye-view.</p><p>“I said, <em>stop!”</em> Dad hisses with this scary brimstone in his eyes that makes Dean shudder. “You’ve been touchin’ him. Ain’t you, Boy?” Dad snaps.</p><p>Dean holds his ground. Works his hips down a couple of times against Dad’s awakening manhood.</p><p>“Sammy’s innocence means <strong><em>everything</em></strong> to me, Dad. Absolutely. <em>Everything,”</em> Dean enunciates his words, needing Dad to fully comprehend the way things are gonna be from now on. “And I am <em>gonna</em> touch him. Make him feel <strong>loved</strong> the only way <em>I </em>know how to make him feel <strong>loved</strong>. And you ain’t gonna <em>forbid</em> me, again.”</p><p>Dad lets out an involuntary grunt when Dean <strong>grinds</strong> their needs together again.</p><p>“You speak of Sam’s <em>innocence</em> but touch that boy under his clothes. It ain’t <strong>right</strong>, Dean. <em>You ain’t right.”</em></p><p>Dean sets his jaw. Then, drops down his left hand to tease the outline of Dad’s need with deviant fingertips rather than perky hip ruts.</p><p>“Sam sees touch as <em>affection</em>. <strong>Normalcy</strong>. Not <strong>sexual</strong>, Dad. His mind is pure and centered. <em>Not like ours</em>. And if we make touch <strong>bad</strong>—<em>wrong</em>—Sam will <em>lose</em> that innocence. So yeah, I <strong>touch</strong> him. But not like <em>this</em>, Dad. Not like I <strong>touch</strong> you.”</p><p>Dad narrows his eyes.</p><p>Dean prays that this is working. That somehow, this will convince Dad to do the right thing.</p><p>The <strong><em>just</em></strong> thing.</p><p>Dad did tell Dean that he could <em>‘persuade a demon between his sheets,’</em> last they spoke and Dean hopes to God that this is enough.</p><p>That Dean has the pull Dad was previously convinced that Dean has.</p><p>Because Dad has the will of a demon. The soul of a stone-fucking-wall.</p><p>Coarse hands glide up Dean’s flannel and latch hold of his cheeks. Dad’s thumbs cup the curve of Dean’s jaw and brush at the baby-soft skin and tantalize Dean’s soft wispy fuzz.</p><p>“Fuck, Dean!” Dad shakes his head as if to clear it, then reopens his dark-shaded eyes. “Fine. Sam is <strong>yours</strong>. The way he reacted <em>without</em> you, proves he’s been tainted by your wickedness, <em>already</em>. An’ there ain’t no tamin’ the <strong>damage</strong> you inflict.”</p><p>Although Dean won—this doesn’t even remotely <em>feel</em> like a win.</p><p>Dad is right—Sammy <strong>is</strong> tainted and twisted-up and Dean is at fault for it.</p><p>
  <em>All of it.</em>
</p><p>But that is Dean’s problem—<em>and Dean has to be the one to somehow fix it</em>—but Dean has to be given the opportunity to fix what he has wrecked in Sam.</p><p>And Dad has just given that to him.</p><p>“I want somethin’ <em>else</em>, too, Dad.” Dean might be pushing his luck a tad father than he oughta dare—but the wide array of guilt that is now eating Dean alive needs <strong>somewhere</strong> to go.</p><p>Dean needs to have solace <em>somewhere</em>.</p><p>“What else <strong><em>is</em></strong> there, Dean?” Dad drops his hands and wets his lips. “What more <em>could</em> you want?”</p><p>“Nothin’ <strong>big</strong>, Sir.” Dean drops his eyes and reworks his thoughts. “Those pain pills … the ones you gave me when you <em>belted</em> me …”</p><p>Dad quirks up a brow.</p><p>“I want some of my <em>own.”</em></p><p>“Some?” Dad searches Dean’s eyes, in an uncomfortable sort of way. <em>“How many?”</em></p><p>Dean fists Dad’s flannel and squirms a bit. This is an uncomfortable <strong>ask</strong> for Dean. It is downright embarrassing and he feels sick about it—but Dean is going <strong>crazy</strong> without something to take this intense edge off his bones.</p><p>“When you give me money. I want a <strong>bottle</strong>, too. Every time. No questions, Dad. I <strong>need</strong> ‘em.”</p><p>Dad pulls Dean in nearer, until their chests touch and their lips are no longer scores-apart, but centimeters—<em>maybe an inch.</em></p><p>“No <strong><em>questions</em></strong>, Dean? What do I <strong>look</strong> like to you? A pill ATM?” Dad’s voice is edged but Dean can’t ascertain whether it’s deadly or not.</p><p>“Please, Dad.” Dean will beg if he has to—<em>like he just did for Sammy. Again.</em></p><p>“You have a weakness, too, Dean. And it ain’t <em>just</em> Sammy.”</p><p>Dean squeaks as Dad cups his erection through his bottoms. Cementing his knowledge of Dean’s many perceived weaknesses in this instant.</p><p>“Your <strong><em>need</em></strong> is sensitive and young, yet. And it don’t take much to get you <strong>worked</strong> up.” Dad rubs and strokes Dean, fondling his length with jerks of his wrist that have Dean fumbling to regain control of this situation—<em>of Dad and his own fucking thoughts.</em></p><p><strong> <em>Shit</em> </strong> <em>. Shit. </em> <strong>Damn</strong> <em>.</em></p><p>“Should I make you <strong>cum</strong>, Dean? Mess up your boxers? Take you out to the Impala for punishment?” Dad has this wicked stir in his eyes all the sudden—<em>it makes Dean uneasy.</em></p><p>Dean can’t control his hips right now. They are rutting and seeking out friction of their own accord from Dad’s brash, pumping hand.</p><p>It’s a lot.</p><p>Suddenly, Dad just stops.</p><p>Pulls back his hand and looks Dean in the eyes.</p><p>“I … I <em>need</em> them is all, Dad. Okay? I just … I <strong><em>need</em></strong> them. Please? I need the <strong>edge</strong> to be taken off.” Dean makes another stupid <em>(vast)</em> decision in this moment. He leans forward and connects his lips with Dad’s. Kisses the harsh, alcohol-tasting things and pushes his tongue in-between.</p><p>Wrestles with Dad’s tongue and grinds down, into Dad’s swollen need. Driving their hot, thick needs together and pushing them both <em>right up to the line.</em></p><p>Dad retracts with a low grunt.</p><p>Dean is prepared for this reaction though and leans over and whispers in Dad’s ear.</p><p>“Take me to the Impala, Dad. <em>Now.”</em></p><p>Dad has Dean scooped up in his arms and carries Dean out to the Impala.</p><p>There isn’t a question in it. There is just an answer.</p><p>Dad snatches up the keys and quietly exits their motel room.</p><p>It’s well past midnight, now, and no one else is even around.</p><p>The parking lot is dead and that makes their entrance into the rear of the Impala that much <em>less</em> conspicuous.</p><p>The second Dean is put on the rear bench seat, he unbuttons and strips out of his flannel.</p><p>The May air is crisp and cool but it’s a tiny bit warmer inside the Impala. Dean can’t be bothered right now to really give a shit about the chill, anyhow.</p><p>Dean kicks off his shoes, eases his boxers and jeans down his thighs and displays his seed-leaking boyhood. Dad watches with apprehension and Dean shoots him a brazen smirk.</p><p>If Dad already believes Dean to be a little demon seductor in training—then Dean realizes that he has absolutely <strong><em>nothing</em></strong> to lose by proving Dad right.</p><p>Or, Dean, <em>thinks so</em>, anyway.</p><p>Dean crawls on Dad’s <em>(fully-clothed)</em> lap and straddles the bulk of Dad’s well-defined thighs. The scratch of denim on Dean’s sensitive skin is even more of a turn-on for Dean. It makes the length of him—<em>pulsate with need.</em></p><p>Dad notices and uses the strong massage of long-stemmed fingers to pinch and tease, Dean’s, sides until they ache with the proof of it.</p><p>“What are you doin, Boy? Huh? Why’d you want me to bring you out here?” Dad pushes for an answer and Dean gives him one.</p><p>“I’m givin’ you <strong>payment</strong>, Sir. For the pills … an’ for lettin’ me <strong><em>keep</em></strong> Sammy.”</p><p>Dad’s eyebrows shoot straight up.</p><p>“What are you talkin’ bout, Dean? I ain’t gonna do that with ya again … it was a <strong>mistake</strong>. A fucked-up lapse in <em>judgement</em>. I ain’t gonna <strong>claim</strong> you again. You can wipe that notion outta your head, Boy.”</p><p>It is Dean’s turn to lift an eyebrow.</p><p>“You said yourself that you <em>ain’t</em> a pill ATM and I ain’t gonna ask you to be, Dad,” Dean reasons. “Despite whatever you think about me, I have <em>only</em> ever loved you, Sir. I’ve let myself love you and I have let myself be <em>insulted</em> and made <strong>nothing</strong> by you. And I ached for your love so <em>badly</em> that I let you <strong>have</strong> me. Because nothin’ in the world was worse than when I belonged to that <em>other</em> man,” Dean explains.</p><p>Dad grips Dean by the scalp and pulls him close until they are breathing in each other’s air.</p><p><em>“Listen to me, Dean,”</em> Dad breathes out in a whisper, with those dark, deadly eyes boring into Dean’s. “I ain’t no faggot, alright? I don’t go layin’ with men and spreading my legs for ‘em, nor have them spreadin’ their legs for me. An’ you shouldn’t be neither.”</p><p>That word—<em>faggot</em>—ripples through Dean like a bad dream. It sinks and eats at Dean’s insides until he wants to throw up—<em>but he doesn’t.</em></p><p>
  <em>Dean has to keep it together, right now.</em>
</p><p> “Yer cock ain’t right, Dean. It gets stiff for yer <em>old man</em>. Stiff at <em>my</em> touch an’ came when I was <strong>inside</strong> of ya.”</p><p>These words—<em>these vile, coarse words</em>—are permanently burrowing home in Dean’s mind. Making him feel inferior—<em>weak</em>.</p><p><em>‘I’m filthy … A filthy, dirty, Faggot …’</em> Dean thinks internally.</p><p>Dean swallows down the bile that threatens <em>(again)</em> to rise.</p><p>Even worse—<em>to Dean’s eternal shame</em>—his boyhood stays erect. Despite everything—it’s upright and point-ended. Leaking streaks of wetness—<em>even, still.</em></p><p>Dean can’t shut it off, like he so damn wishes he could right now.</p><p>“You know why I cannot bear to look at you, Dean? It ain’t only cause of yer looks no more. It’s cause what you’re becomin’ … it sickens me to my <strong>core</strong>. No son of mine is <em>ever</em> gonna be some filthy, goddamn <em>faggot</em>, alright?” <em>Dean almost feels his heart stop</em>, “An’ then I find your <strong>first</strong> sexual experience ain’t with a woman but with a man. A faggot, no less. An’ then you go an’ seduce me, Boy. <em>Me!</em> An’ you keep tryin’ to <strong>seduce</strong> me. It’s some feral, nasty, habbit you’ve acquired now. And habits <strong>shape</strong> <strong><em>people</em></strong>, Dean. Understand that. Put that in your head and <strong>keep</strong> it there. If you keep up this nasty, sick habit. It’s gonna <strong>define</strong> you. An’ I ain’t gonna <em>let</em> it.”</p><p>The more Dad speaks the less <strong>human</strong> Dean feels.</p><p>Dean feels like his body is toxic—<em>not <strong>just</strong> toxic</em>—unclean, untouchable—<em>un-everything …</em></p><p>There aren’t words to describe the brunt of the impact Dad is having on Dean. This speech—<em>these words</em>—are gonna stay with him for the rest of his life.</p><p>
  <em>Faggot. Queer. Fairy.</em>
</p><p>Dean is never gonna be <strong>any</strong> of those things.</p><p><strong><em>Never</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean isn’t soft-bellied … Chicks are gonna be Dean’s <strong><em>life</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean determines that right here, in this instant.</p><p>Chicks <em>and</em> <strong><em>fucking</em></strong> <em>chicks</em>.</p><p>And that is <strong><em>that</em></strong>.</p><p>But—<em>tonight</em>—and for the foreseeable future, Dean, needs to get his hands on those pills. And if that means convincing Dad that he’s not a faggot—that he’s normal <em>(but willing to perform for Dad’s needs)</em> then so be it.</p><p>Dean will destroy what remains of his whole damn soul.</p><p>“I ain’t a <strong><em>fag</em></strong> Dad. I did what you <strong>told</strong> me to do,” Dean forces a steady—<em>even</em>—tone from his cracked lips, despite the internal havoc Dad just let loose inside of Dean.</p><p>“An’ what’s that?” This piqued Dad’s attention.</p><p>“I scoped out my school. Went and found a <em>hot</em> chick and screwed her. She was <em>older</em>, too. <strong>Pretty</strong>.” This is the easiest Dean has <strong>ever</strong> lied to Dad. Because inside—<em>Dean is dead.</em></p><p>Dean’s soul is squandered down to ribbons and there’s nothing but ache and disgust there now.</p><p>Dean is gonna make sure that <em>Sammy</em> has better. Better than what <strong>Dean</strong> has.</p><p>Sammy <strong><em>deserves</em></strong> to have better than Dean.</p><p>Dad seems pleased and his attitude changes. “Is that <em>so?</em> And did you <strong>like</strong> it? <em>Pussy?”</em></p><p>Dean swallows and nods.</p><p>“Course I did. I’m a fucking <strong>Winchester</strong>, Dad. Pure, straight, Winchester. But this is like a <em>service</em> for you, Dad. Don’t think of me as <strong>Dean</strong> … think of me as <em>Mom</em>. This is a <strong>transaction</strong> between us. I give you something when you need it and you give me a constant supply of <strong>pills</strong>. We both, fucking, win,” Dean says all of this without effort—<em>without tone.</em></p><p>Truth is, Dean, now disgusts even <em>himself</em>—but if Dad will see him in a better light then so be it.</p><p>Dean didn’t realize until Dad just wrenched Dean right into the bitter—<em>disgusting light</em>—that he was still clinging hold of a tiny <strong>fraction</strong> of his innocence.</p><p>Dean’s only innocence that had still been <strong>mostly</strong> intact <em>(that now isn’t)</em> was his innocence regarding the outside worlds point-of-view on men enjoying the company of <em>other</em> men. Sure, Dean, knew it wasn’t right—<em>wasn’t natural</em>—to some degree, but not <strong><em>how</em></strong> repulsive it would make him to other people that knew.</p><p>
  <em>Like Dad.</em>
</p><p>Dad grabbed Dean by his roots and frisked him right into the daylight—<em>and Dean didn’t like it. </em></p><p>Not even <strong><em>remotely</em></strong>.</p><p>Dad is suddenly in a better mood. And it’s like that little spiel never happened. Like some sorta switch <em>flicked</em> and has put an end to all Dad’s repulsions.</p><p>Dad is playful, now—<em>loose again</em>—and Dean really wonders if his voice … <em>his body</em> … really <em>doesn’t</em> hold some kind of seductive potency over others.</p><p>It is a <em>real <strong>wonder</strong></em> for Dean.</p><p>“I don’t have to try to think of you as yer Mom. You are already <em>just</em> like her. <em>Soft</em> … <strong><em>needy</em></strong> <em>…”</em></p><p>Dean plays the part—<em>well.</em></p><p>Simpering when Dad’s hands scale his body in scant traces. Squeaks while his part dribbles out pre, when Dad touches him <strong><em>there</em></strong>. Fondles and gropes until he’s writhing and <strong>hot</strong> all over.</p><p>But Dad put <em>shame</em> in Dean. Shame that will fester into something <em>nasty</em> with time.</p><p>Dean had shame <strong>before</strong>—<em>but not like this</em>—this kind of shame is gonna reshape <em>everything</em> that Dean ever was and ever <strong>will</strong> be. It’s already twisted hooks into the memories that Dean already saw as <em>questionable</em> and now are <strong>unthinkable</strong> … <strong><em>unmentionable …</em></strong></p><p>And Sammy. Dean’s <strong><em>love</em></strong> for his Sammy.</p><p>That has been twisted, too. <em>Thanks to Dad.</em></p><p>It is no longer about how <strong>awful</strong> it might be to <em>corrupt</em> Sammy.</p><p>No. It’s much worse.</p><p>Now, all Dean can think about is … What if I make <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong> a <em>‘faggot,’</em> too?</p><p>Over and over that train repeats itself inside Dean’s head.</p><p>That is the absolute <em>worst</em> thing.</p><p>What if Dean makes it so that Dad hates <strong><em>even</em></strong> Sammy?</p><p>Dad’s <strong>favorite</strong> son?</p><p>Dean lets the heat overtake his skin—lets Dad drive that ache and stroke it until Dean is an overwhelmed mess of parts on Dad’s lap.</p><p>Dad leans down and whispers minimally into Dean’s ear. “You know the <strong>rules</strong>, Boy. I ain’t gonna touch you <em>sober.”</em></p><p>Dean’s eyes roll back and his seed pumps out of his balls, spraying his stomach and Dad’s jeans. The white stuff sprays everywhere as Dean tries to recatch his breath.</p><p>When Dean’s orgasm tapers off, Dad, reaches for an unopened bottle of <em>‘Jack Daniel’s’</em> and unscrews the lid, offering it up to Dean.</p><p>Dean partakes in the whiskey without need to <strong>think</strong> about it.</p><p>Dean doesn’t <strong><em>want</em></strong> to think anymore—Dean wants to go to that <em>special</em> place in his head that is all dozy and mushy—<em>and good</em>.</p><p>Because come morning—<em>shit is gonna be bad for Dean <strong>again</strong></em>.</p><p>Hell, Dean, is gonna be dealing with Dad’s abusive words for <strong>decades</strong> to come—<em>Dean can be damn sure about that.</em></p><p>The unkindness in Dad’s eye. The way Dad so easily just spewed out that <strong>hate</strong> like it was no different than <em>breathing</em> for him.</p><p>Yeah—<em>It would have fucked anyone up.</em></p><p>Dean drinks and drinks and bites back all the tears that desperately wanna fall. Because, this is what <strong>has</strong> to be done.</p><p>For Dean’s own right to <em>function</em>.</p><p>Because those pills are gonna be what <em>(now) </em>gets Dean by.</p><p>The alcohol does its work—<em>instantly</em>—like the first time Dean drank it. Dean’s head is woozy and eyes blur, visually.</p><p>And Dad sets Dean aside and strips outta his clothes. Article by article, down until he’s naked.</p><p>Even in this smarmy haze, Dean, can’t deny that Dad is <em>‘all-man’ </em>underneath his clothes. The leather of Dad’s jacket and the denim of Dad’s jeans make up a part of his persona—<em>but the bulge of muscles on his arms and thighs</em>—and the taut, tight middle that Dad brags helps put on the rest of that display for the world.</p><p>Even the scent that permeates the air in the Impala is <em>‘all-man.’</em> Dad smells of musk and pine-trees. Sweat and whiskey. Even whiskey is an <em>‘all-man’</em> drink.</p><p>Dad is gruff and handsome with a jaw cut from a <strong>perfect</strong> mold.</p><p>And maybe Dean does start crying, now. Because how can he ever hope to live up to Dad when Dad looks like <em>that?</em> And Dean is just this gangly—<em>good-for-nothing</em>—kid that has made all the wrong moves thus far in the name of <em>‘Saving Sammy,’</em> from all manner of things.</p><p>Dad takes notice of Dean and these tears because Dean feels Dad thumb them away from his cheeks and kiss the swell of his lips right after.</p><p>Dad is like a mountain on top of him.</p><p>Hard and immovable.</p><p>And when Dean spreads instinctually for Dad, with his knees tucked up—<em>tiny boyhood already erect and raring for more contact</em>—and tears in his eyes … Well—Dean experiences nothing shy of <strong>insecurity</strong> under Dad.</p><p>Because no one—<em>man or woman</em>—could ever mistake Dad for a ‘<strong><em>Faggot</em></strong>.’</p><p>But they could mistake Dean for it.</p><p>Dean and all his soft <em>curves</em> and <strong>angles</strong>.</p><p>“To think I coulda had anyone for a son. And I got <strong><em>cursed</em></strong> with a faggot,” Dad whispers right up against Dean’s lips.</p><p>And the buzz <strong>breaks</strong>—<em>Dean’s chest squeezes</em>—and Dad covers Dean’s mouth with his own, and rams, <strong>home</strong> in Dean.</p><p>Whatever good, <em>loose</em> feelings Dean experienced the last time they did this—are nowhere to be found <strong>this</strong> time around.</p><p>Because Dad <em>isn’t</em> gentle. They don’t <em>‘make love.’</em></p><p>Dad fuck’s him. <em>Hard.</em></p><p>
  <em>Brutal-like.</em>
</p><p>And Dean takes it because he <strong>has</strong> to—because Dean knows no other thing to do—than <strong><em>be</em></strong> <em>broken.</em></p><p>Dad is like a rough, unrecognizable <strong>monster</strong>. This encounter is like a punishment and Dad does … <em>punish him.</em></p><p>Dean feels Dad grasp for the sensitive spots on his skin. Maims his sides with bruises. Takes Dean’s ass until he thinks he might be wrenched <em>inside-out</em>. It’s difficult to breath and <strong>not</strong> scream—but Dean takes this punishment. <em>For everything he is.</em></p><p>For whatever Dad <strong>thinks</strong> he can punish out of Dean that isn’t already sank into the furthest depths and edges of Dean’s soul.</p><p>This take is <strong>brutal</strong>—<em>this pain unbearable</em>—and the way all of this makes Dean feel is <strong>even</strong> <strong>worse</strong>.</p><p><em>“D-Daddy …”</em> Dean breathes when Dad frees up Dean’s lips giving him the ability to speak, once again.</p><p>The way Dad eyes Dean in this feral way has Dean squirm and shamefully remove his eyes. Because this, <strong>hurts</strong>—<em>not just physically</em>—but emotionally.</p><p>This shreds <strong><em>everything</em></strong> Dean has.</p><p>Worse than the words <em>ever</em> could.</p><p>“You wanna be Daddy’s <strong>whore</strong>, Boy? I’ll treat you like my whore—” Dad says it like a promise and Dean can only <em>sob</em> in reply. “You wanna lie to me about <em>fuckin’</em> pussy? I’ll show you how you fuck pussy—"</p><p>There is no recourse that Dean has to fight this—<em>to fight Dad</em>.</p><p>Dad saw through his lie—even his dead lie—and Dean is done. Dean can’t think through this or he’ll die right here—he’ll choose to give up.</p><p>And Dean can never give up—<em>because Sammy …</em></p><p>Always, <em>‘Because Sammy.’</em></p><p>Dad pushes and takes until Dean sees <strong>white</strong> and blurred edges around his vision. Dad makes <em>bruises</em> where Dean has made <strong>cuts</strong> on himself.</p><p>“You are <strong>still</strong> hard, Boy. Like a little <em>cock-slut,” </em>Dad points out and Dean now feels Dad fondling him again.</p><p>Working Dean over—<em>getting him off in this humiliating position of painful torture.</em></p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Dean cums in seconds—<em>again</em>—and his eager skin twinges and aches—but also bursts with pleasure and Dean really wants to throw-up now. Because … <em>Why? </em>Why is Dean somehow experiencing pleasure in the middle of <em>all this pain?”</em></p><p>Dean has never heard Dad use the term <em>‘cock-slut,’</em> before, but it sounds dirty—<em>feels dirty</em>—just like Dean.</p><p>Mercifully, Dean, loses consciousness.</p><p>The pleasure—<em>the pain</em>—they are both so intense that it overtakes Dean’s consciousness.</p><p>And Dean fades inward and falls into nightmares of Dad and the current state of Dean’s own decimated self-image.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When, Dean, next opens his eyes Dean is fully-clothed and tucked underneath the covers alongside a <em>sleeping</em> Sammy.</p><p>The pills Dean asked for are propped on the nightstand and Dad is sound asleep in the bed across the way.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have to think—just reaches for the pills and pops one into his mouth, <em>dry</em>, and swallows.</p><p>Dean is <strong>all</strong> pain and ache and that is what has woken him up.</p><p>Tomorrow, Dad, will probably dump Dean and Sammy off in <em>another</em> town, God knows where, but Dean could <strong>give</strong> a shit.</p><p>Right now—Right now, Dean, just wants to sleep and forget and drift.</p><p>
  <em>So, Dean, does exactly that.</em>
</p><p><em>Drifts</em>—<em>sleeps</em>—but this time he <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> forget.</p><p>Dean will <strong>never</strong> be <em>able</em> to <strong><em>forget</em></strong>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. part 5; things we never talk about.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Florida heat, Arguments, and Sammy's first time.<br/>Dean is 14.<br/>Sam is 11.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>This chapter took longer than it's predecessors, because I took a day or so to break, because this addition (for some reason) was a lot more difficult for me to write! BUT that time skip I promised you has arrived! I have decided that I definitely intend to take this to (and beyond) their canon years. It will be fun to do my own interpretation of canon down the line. I already have oodles of plot bunnies for it! So, stick around, the best is yet to come! ;] Enjoy Lovelies!</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 5; things we never talk about.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Lies and secrets.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>They are a cancer</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>in the soul. They eat</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>away what is good</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>and leave only</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>destruction behind.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xvi. jealousy &amp; gapes &amp; wounds.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Time seems to pass differently after Sam’s eighth birthday. And the hell if Sam fully understands the <strong><em>why</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Dean and Dad are stiff and at odds for months after that normal <em>(almost-normal for their family anyway) </em>day.</p><p>The following day, Dad, loaded Sam and Dean in the Impala and they headed off for <em>‘Nowhere-Georgia,’</em> on a tip from Uncle Bobby.</p><p>The way Dean acted after that has Sam more confused than he would like to admit.</p><p>Because when Sam goes ahead and asks Dean about what Dad had to say <em>(in regards to Dad’s intentions to separate them if Dean touches Sam again)</em> after Dean talked to Dad about it, Dean, would only tell Sam that he’d <em>‘handled it,’ </em>and nothing more.</p><p>It is difficult to explain, but it is almost like that strange off-kilter-like balance that Sam tried to talk to Dean about on that birthday has only gotten exponentially worse, since that day.</p><p>Like—<em>worse than exponentially</em>—more like ‘<em>a-billion-times-infinite</em>,’ kind of worse.</p><p>Dad comes around a whole lot more than he used <em>to (not for long periods) </em>but usually at night.</p><p>Sometimes, Sam, will wake up because he senses that the weight of Dean is gone from his side <em>(and that his limbs have nothing to grasp onto because of the lack of Dean being in bed with him)</em> and Sam will see through his bleary vision that Dean and Dad are sneaking out of the hotel room.</p><p>Sam waited a few seconds once, crept to the door, and peaked out, only to witness Dean and Dad climbing into the back of the Impala, together.</p><p>That still puzzles, Sam, because when he made a small mention to Dean of hearing him and Dad leave the room <em>(just once at random to gauge for a reaction)</em> Dean’s face had gone ashy-white and pale—<em>like death</em>—and Dean had stumbled over his words tryin’ desperate-like to explain it all away.</p><p>That reaction scared Sam at the time—<em>still scares him now actually</em>—because it’s been almost three years and Dean’s behavior has only progressed into this <em>unrecognizable</em> thing that Sam can’t understand.</p><p>Dean was eleven when he told Sam that he would<em> ‘understand shit when he was older,’ </em>but Sam is eleven, now—and he still doesn’t understand what Dean meant by that.</p><p>Sure, Sam, has felt changes overcoming his body. He has grown in height but thanks to all this stress <em>(from bouncing around constantly and worrying over Dean)</em> Sam still lacks in the weight department.</p><p>Sam often loses the bulk of his lunch <em>(maybe even dinner)</em> to the toilet because his stomach has never quite been the same since those months when he <em>chose</em> not to eat at Uncle Bobby’s.</p><p>Sam will run the sink and it drowns out his retching-like sounds and Dean can’t tell the difference. Afterward, Sam, will just reemerge with water splashed on his face to pretend like everything is all well and good.</p><p>There are other things that have changed—<em>far more significant things. </em></p><p>Dean used to reserve most of his attention for Sam. They’d go to school, walk back to the hotel, and cuddle on the couch—or watch television together—they would do something …</p><p>But right after Sam’s eighth birthday, Dean, started to take an interest in <em>‘chicks,’</em> <em>(as Dean calls them)</em> and it’s like Dean has gone out of his way to show off his masculinity.</p><p>Something Dean never used to do.</p><p>Maybe it <strong>is</strong> all part of growing up but now that Sam is the same age Dean was when all this nonsense started—Sam can honestly say that he doesn’t have an interest in <em>‘chicks,’</em> or a sudden need for privacy from Dean.</p><p>Dean is like a second parent to Sam. But it’s also deeper than that.</p><p>It’s like this warm, <em>fuzzy</em> sensation that only Dean seems able to invoke in Sam whenever Dean pays special attention to him.</p><p>Maybe, it is because Sam doesn’t <em>get</em> the attention he so craves from, Dean, like he used to. Or maybe it is the <strong>type</strong> of attention he manages to persuade outta Dean these days.</p><p>Dean will often walk Sam back to whatever two-bit motel they are staying at <em>(at the time)</em>, make some sorta lame excuse, then duck out soon after.</p><p>Sam has followed Dean a couple times. Found Dean meeting up with one of these so-called <em>‘chicks,’</em> and the very first time Sam did, he felt this pain in his chest that is still lodged profoundly-deep in there, <em>even now.</em></p><p>Dean makes out with these girls. Sam has even seen Dean slide a hand underneath one of their skirts, palming eagerly at the space between her thighs.</p><p>Some blond named <em>‘Tiffany,’</em> was the first Sam took note of.</p><p>But there have been <strong>many</strong>—<em>more than Sam could ever possibly count</em>—and these girls <em>(these ‘chicks’)</em> are the reason Sam still loses his lunch and <em>(sometimes)</em> dinner down the toilet.</p><p>Because things have heated up for Dean and these conquests, but where Sam is concerned, Dean, seems almost … almost <em>worse</em> than reluctant to <strong>touch</strong> Sam.</p><p>Despite the fact that, Sam, has kept the promise that he made to Dean all that time ago. Sam has been nothing but <strong>good</strong> … only begged for Dean’s touch under his clothes before they fall to sleep.</p><p>Sam takes what he can get of his big brother—and that isn’t much. It’s scraps and pittance—<em>barely a goddamned thing</em>—if Sam is being totally honest.</p><p>When it comes to the throb—<em>more like ache</em>—Dean leaves behind <strong><em>after</em></strong> these <em>‘touch-sessions’</em> Sam pleads for, <em>well</em> … Sam takes care of <strong><em>that</em></strong> himself.</p><p>Like Dean <strong>taught</strong> him to do.</p><p>Which is easy, because Sam only has to close his eyes and <em>pretend</em> to be asleep, and that is when Dean will inch away from him. Untangle their limbs and head into the bathroom with a <em>‘click.’</em></p><p>Which leaves Sam the space and time to tug at his swollen bits until the inevitable transpires. There are always thoughts of Dean and his warm, <strong><em>real</em></strong> hands all over Sam’s sides, back, and chest.</p><p>And the explosive force that Sam succumbs to is always <strong>exquisite</strong>.</p><p>One thing, Sam, does understand now is that Dean was sexually excited that time on the couch, all that time ago. Because the same liquid heat will pump outta Sam, now. Whenever he strokes and gets off from it.</p><p>It started a few months ago, at random. And Sam uses tissues now to keep the mess in check. Tissues he discards in the trashcan next to his and Dean’s motel bed.</p><p>Other than that—Sam is still confused as hell about what Dean is going through.</p><p>Sam followed Dean to the bathroom once. Listened in at the door, <em>(when Dean thought Sam was asleep) </em>and heard the sound of choked—<em>muffled</em>—sobs.</p><p>Dean <strong><em>cries</em></strong> after touching Sam.</p><p>Like it’s this gross thing—<em>like it’s this wrong, vile thing</em>.</p><p>But Dean never cries after touching <em>‘chicks.’</em></p><p><strong><em>Never</em></strong>.</p><p>All Dean’s tears are reserved, solely, for when he touches Sam.</p><p>Dean’s behavior has not only confused, Sam, it’s helped Sam draw this conclusion that it’s him. <strong><em>Only</em></strong> <em>him</em>. That, Sam, is somehow the thing Dean can’t <strong>stand</strong> to touch.</p><p>That it’s like <strong>torture</strong> for Dean—<em>or something.</em> And all of this has to do with Dad somehow—<em>Sam still hasn’t figured out how</em>—but Dean is a nervous wreck.</p><p>
  <em>All the time.</em>
</p><p>Sam has seen Dean break down. Peaked underneath Dean’s t-shirt while he sleeps and found an amass of dark, deep scars and bruised<em> (painful-looking) </em>skin. And, Dean, tries to hide it, but Sam knows Dean pops pills.</p><p>Maybe they are the reason for Dean’s sour, <strong><em>bad,</em></strong> mood-swings and countless cheap-shot remarks that Sam <strong>hopes</strong> he doesn’t actually mean to say, sometimes.</p><p>Dean is miserable—<em>just like Sam</em>—and Sam has been afraid to full-on confront it for <strong><em>years</em></strong>.</p><p>Because what will <em>happen</em> if he <strong><em>does</em></strong><em>?</em></p><p>Will Dean break? Will Dean run and never come back?</p><p>Sam is afraid to find out the answer.</p><p>So … Sam does what he learned to do while at Uncle Bobby’s. Sam keeps his damn mouth <strong><em>shut</em></strong> and learns to feel ashamed in <strong><em>silence</em></strong>.</p><p>Ashamed because Dean is <em>still</em> Sam’s whole damn world … Ashamed because Sam is such a fucking <strong>burden</strong> on Dean … And most of all, Sam, is scared. <strong><em>Shitless</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Scared for Dean.</em>
</p><p>Sam, is just <strong>conflicted</strong> because part of him—<em>maybe the biggest part</em>—wants Dean <em>all</em> to himself.</p><p>Sam is <em>jealous</em>. And not just a little bit—<em>a lot.</em></p><p>Jealous of every <em>‘chick,’</em> that Dean wraps his arm around—jealous of every <em>whisper</em> in a random ear … every soft, sensual touch that these <em>‘chicks,’</em> can persuade outta Dean that Sam <strong><em>can’t</em></strong>.</p><p>None of this is fair. So, maybe that is why Sam is sulking right now, instead of doing <strong>homework</strong> like he normally would be.</p><p>School is almost done for the summer though, anyway.</p><p>And that means suffering through another hot, <em>sweaty</em> three months of Dean flirting his way into <em>‘chicks’,’</em> pants, unaware of how much it hurts Sam to watch.</p><p>Or maybe Dean <em>knows</em> … maybe Dean just doesn’t <strong>care</strong>.</p><p>Sam can’t read Dean like he used to be able to. Dean is too <em>suppressed</em> … too stone-wall-like. Dean has become like Dad in that respect and that, too, scares the shit out of Sam.</p><p>One more week, then Dad is gonna swing by and pick them up.</p><p>Sam hates Florida—<em>always has, always will</em>—because it is too damn hot, here.</p><p>Sam is sticky and overheated. The brown mop of hair on his head, is stuck to his forehead and neck.</p><p>Dean has made a few mentions about trimming his hair, but hasn’t actually gotten around to it, which is just as well. Sam likes his hair on the longer side—though not-so-much in this <strong><em>fucking</em></strong> heat.</p><p>It’s well after eight <em>(past dinner)</em> and Sam ate cold, leftover pizza. But Sam is sulking because Dean <em>still</em> isn’t back yet.</p><p>The TV is playing reruns of old cartoons, but Sam only has it on for background noise anyway—he isn’t actually paying the tiniest iota of attention to it.</p><p>Sam wants to confront Dean—<em>is determined to actually</em>—but doesn’t know how … or <strong>what</strong> to say.</p><p>Sam is still trying to work it all out, when Dean <em>(finally)</em> waltzes in.</p><p>Mud on his shoes, short hair sticking up in places <em>(clearly having been rifled through by another’s fingers)</em> and a brownish-blackish leather jacket hooked on one of his fingers and slung over his shoulder.</p><p>Sweat is making a thin-sheen on Dean’s face and neck—and Dean’s musky sex-like scent is apparent to Sam the instant Dean steps through their motel door.</p><p>Clicking off the TV, Sam, sits up on the couch with a sudden knot in his stomach.</p><p>“Where have you been, Dean?” Sam doubts Dean will give him a straight answer <em>(he never does these days)</em> but its worth a shot, nonetheless.</p><p>“Jesus, Sammy. You gotta ask questions the <em>second</em> I walk through that door?” Dean throws down his room key on the table, then drapes his jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.</p><p>Sam takes a deep breath, digging his nails into his kneecaps for strength and grounding.</p><p>Despite everything, Sam, can’t seem to break his habit of digging in his nails every time shit gets <strong>bad</strong> in his head—and shit is worse than <strong><em>bad</em></strong> in Sam’s head right now.</p><p>“That’s <strong>not</strong> an answer, Dean,” Sam persists, narrowing his eyes.</p><p>Dean stops in his tracks and shoots Sam a calculating stare.</p><p>“Christ, Sam, is this an interrogation or somethin’?” Dean laughs but it doesn’t quite touch his eyes.</p><p>Sam huffs, while trying to determine what his next move should be. Dean is baiting him … sort of … and Sam doesn’t know how to gain the upper-hand here.</p><p>“Yeah, Dean. Maybe it is,” Sam retorts, stubbornly holding his ground.</p><p>Dean runs his fingers through his tousled head of hair, lets out the tiniest sigh, and shoots Sam another look.</p><p>“I ain’t in the <em>mood</em>, tonight, Sammy. Alright? I need to take a shower—”</p><p><em>“Tough shit, Dean!”</em> Sam snaps.</p><p>Dean’s mouth falls open—<em>clearly startled.</em></p><p>Even Sam is a little bit surprised at his own frustrated words.</p><p>“Wow. Alright, Sam. What’s gotten into you, huh? Since when do <em>you</em> talk like that?”</p><p>Sam rises from the couch, and goes to stand right in front of Dean—effectively blocking his path to the bathroom.</p><p>“Since, <strong>now</strong>, Dean.”</p><p>Sam decides to continue to stand his ground—It’s all he really <strong>can</strong> do at this point. Dean responds to a show of <em>strength</em> more than cute <em>‘pouty-faces’</em> these days. Sam figured that out the hard way on more than one occasion, as of late.</p><p>“Cut it out, Sam. Get out of my way or else—”</p><p>“Or else, <em>what</em>, Dean?! What are you gonna do? Go fuck some <strong><em>other</em></strong> whore?!”</p><p>Okay. Sam definitely didn’t mean to say <strong><em>that</em></strong>.</p><p>It’s this damned jealousy inside of him, <em>for one</em>—<em>it’s bubbling up</em>—and this intense Florida heat isn’t helping, <em>for two.</em></p><p>Dean’s eyes expand to replicate saucers and Sam takes note that Dean’s hands have begun to shake. Chest rising and falling every couple of seconds, too.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>If Sam isn’t careful, he is starting to realize that he could <em>(unintentionally)</em> careen Dean into one of his panic attacks …</p><p>“I don’t see how <em>that</em> is any of your damn business, Sam,” Dean says, teeth tightly clenched.</p><p>Sam balls his hands into tight fists and sinks his nails into the palms. Hoping the pain will help him focus a little better …</p><p>“You never <strong><em>used</em></strong> to … to be gone for <strong>so</strong> long …” This is just starting to sound pathetic, now, and Sam knows it the second it falls out … but Sam is losing any and all of his restraint.</p><p>And <em>that</em> is ultimately a bad thing.</p><p>Dean works his jaw and sighs. “What is this about, Sammy? Huh? Don’t tell me you’re startin’ again with the <em>clinginess</em> … You ain’t a little kid no more, Sam. At some point you’re gonna have to grow outta this obsession you have with me.”</p><p>Sam feels the weight of Dean’s words slam into his chest like a ton of bricks.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, no … What has he done?</em>
</p><p>“You’re right, De … I’m <strong>not</strong> little anymore. I’m the same age <em>you</em> were, when you told me I’d understand things. And I … I still feel the <strong>same</strong> as I did <em>then</em>, Dean.”</p><p>Sam realizes that, <em>this is it</em>. He needs to go in—<em>all or nothing</em>—head for home or strike out, completely.</p><p>No turning back now—<em>even if this all blows up in his face …</em></p><p>Dean’s eyes change on a dime.</p><p>That panic seems to dig in its hooks and stall things in Dean. Because Sam can tell that something is off—<em>really fucking off</em>—and he can’t discern what that something is.</p><p>“I dunno <em>what</em> you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Sam.”</p><p>Sam takes an even bigger risk and steps into Dean’s space, until they are breathing each other’s air. Sam can smell the flowery-scent of, <em>‘Sandy,’ (a ‘chick’ from Dean’s class)</em> in the air. Combined with salt and fire-smoke.</p><p>“I still don’t mind if you see every inch of me, <em>naked</em>. I still … I still <strong>want</strong> your touch <em>everywhere</em> on me. Including where you made me promise <strong>not</strong> to ask … <em>especially there</em>, Dean.”</p><p>This is Sam’s <strong>truth</strong> and he needs to say it just this once …</p><p>Sam doesn’t give Dean proper time to respond. Not before he is taking the <em>plunge</em>. Leaning in, sealing their lips together, tangling tongues and shoving his down Dean’s throat—<em>all in one sweep of passionate need.</em></p><p>It’s rough with vigor—for the <em>two seconds</em> that Dean succumbs and kisses Sam back—but then … then it’s <em>hard</em> and <strong>cruel</strong>.</p><p>Dean shoves at Sam’s chest and Sam tumbles to the ground.</p><p>Sam didn’t expect this harsh, <em>violent</em> response.</p><p>“What the <strong>fuck</strong>, Sam?!” Dean wipes his mouth on <em>his ‘Led Zeppelin’ </em>t-shirt and glares down at Sam.</p><p>Sam can feel his stomach turning and twisting with revolting knots of shame and degradation. This is <em>not</em> at all how Sam planned this—<em>any of this</em>—and it is <em>completely</em> blowing up in his face.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“We used to kiss <strong>all</strong> the time, Dean. Why won’t you <em>let</em> me, anymore?” Sam asks through tear-filled eyes.</p><p>“Because it ain’t fuckin’ <strong>right</strong>, Sam! Nothing between us has <em>ever</em> been fuckin’ <em>right!</em> An’ I have tried everything I know how to make you <em>better</em>, Sam! I have stepped back an’ I have <strong>tried</strong>! Tried to make you goddamned <strong><em>normal</em></strong><em>! </em>Why can’t you <strong>just</strong> be normal?! Huh?! Why can’t you just be chasin’ tail with <strong><em>chicks</em></strong><em>?</em> Why you gotta chase <strong><em>me</em></strong><em>?!”</em></p><p>Sam experiences his stomach flutter and sink.</p><p>“Do I repulse you <em>that</em> much, Dean?” Sam whispers, now, just plain old defeated. “Is that why you have to <strong>cry</strong> in the bathroom every night after you touch me?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes widen, clearly Dean thought <em>(up until this point)</em> that he was slick about sneaking off to go and bawl his eyes out. But he <em>hasn’t</em> been.</p><p>Not even a <strong>little</strong> bit slick.</p><p>“Shit … Sam, <strong>no</strong> … It’s <strong><em>not</em></strong> … <em>Fuck …”</em> Dean is at a total loss for words.</p><p>Sam can surmise <strong><em>that</em></strong> much from the look in Dean’s eyes. But the words Dean <strong><em>did</em></strong> think to use are still responsible for this pain that has taken over Sam’s <em>gut</em> and is working its way into taking over Sam’s <strong>heart</strong>, now, too.</p><p>Sam wanted the truth and he <em>has</em> it now.</p><p>Dean is actively avoiding him—trying to make Sam <em>‘normal’</em> like anything about Sam could <strong>ever</strong> be fucking <em>‘normal’</em> that is.</p><p>Sam rises up from the carpet, dusts off his thin-top and plaid boxers, then levels his wounded green-eyes with, Dean’s, obscure ones.</p><p>“Sammy, I’m <strong>sorry</strong>, okay? Really <em>fuckin’</em> sorry …”</p><p>Dean comes in closer and has his hand closed around Sam’s cheek in a <strong>second</strong>. It feels <em>good</em> <em>and</em> <em>warm</em>—and Sam’s skin bursts with sensation, but that sickness is <strong>lodged</strong> in him now.</p><p>A heavy reminder that Dean doesn’t <strong><em>like</em></strong> to touch him.</p><p>Dean does it out of <em>obligation</em>—and that is so much worse than any <strong>other</strong> reason.</p><p>Sam jerks back and away. Fingering away tears that run down his face.</p><p>“D-Don’t … I wouldn’t … I don’t wanna be a <strong>burden</strong>, Dean. I never … <strong><em>never</em></strong> wanted to be that …”</p><p>Sam means it, too.</p><p>With all his damn heart.</p><p>
  <em>“Sammy—”</em>
</p><p>“No, Dean. <strong>No</strong>,” Sam overtalks Dean not wanting to hear whatever <em>forced-out</em> words Dean is going to say, next. Whatever they might be—Sam knows Dean won’t actually <strong>mean</strong> them.</p><p>Dean says things he doesn’t mean <strong><em>all</em></strong> the time.</p><p>They <em>both</em> do. It’s the job of a hunter’s <em>kids</em>—<em>to lie.</em></p><p>But, Dean, most of all, because Sam knows Dean feels this obligation towards him. Dean would torture himself if Sam needed Dean to and Sam doesn’t want to be the <em>thing</em> that tortures his big brother, anymore.</p><p>“I’ve been playin’ this tug of war with you for <strong>years</strong>, now. And I think I <em>finally</em> get it. You don’t love me the way <strong><em>I</em></strong> love you. You’re <strong>incapable</strong> of it … and it’s <em>okay</em>, De. I’m not <strong>normal</strong> like you are. I guess that is why I just can’t understand. <em>I’m</em> the one that’s messed-up and wrong … It’s normal to like <em>‘chicks’</em> and not wanna hang around your <strong>annoying</strong> kid-brother, am I close?”</p><p><em>“Sammy …” </em>Dean’s eyes look downright tortured.</p><p>Sam pushes on.</p><p>“<strong>Don’t</strong> answer that,” Sam mutters.</p><p>“I have watched you, Dean. I have seen you go <em>downhill</em>. I know you don’t <em>think</em> I notice, but I <strong>notice</strong> things, Dean. I notice that Dad gives you pills and that you take them almost <em>obsessively</em>. I notice that you <strong>panic</strong> whenever I get too close to you … or push too <em>hard</em> to talk to you. And I know it takes <strong>everything</strong> out of you to climb into our bed at night. I’ve seen the cuts and bruises you think you stopped me seeing when you stopped letting me <strong>touch</strong> underneath your clothes. I see the way you <em>look</em> at me whenever you think I ain’t paying attention. I see <strong>everything</strong>, Dean. I don’t always understand <em>what</em> it is I see … but I know one chunk of the damn puzzle that is <em>you</em>, now, Dean.”</p><p>Sam takes a deep breath, surveying the stone-stiff manner that Dean is taking all of this in, with. There are <strong>rare</strong> tears threatening to fall in Dean’s eyes and Sam can see the tremors that Dean isn’t even <em>trying</em> to hide—<em>not even a little—</em><strong>worsening</strong><em>.</em></p><p>“You will do <strong>anything</strong> for me. Even if it makes you <em>sick</em> to do it …” Sam sighs, sadly. “So, I am releasing you from your <em>obligation</em>. You don’t <strong>have</strong> to touch me … you don’t have to do <em>anything</em>. Hell, have Dad dump me off at Uncle Bobby’s … if it will make <em>you</em> happy for once … I’ll <strong>endure</strong> it.”</p><p>Dean stares at Sam with wide eyes. Dean’s expression is indecipherable. He’s gotten too damn good at hiding his emotions from Sam. And that is the most <em>aggravating</em> thing of all.</p><p>Sam wants to stop breathing the second he tells Dean it is alright to <strong>abandon</strong> him—<em>the one thing Dean pinkie swore he would never allow Dad to do agai</em>n—but this isn’t <strong>about</strong> Dad.</p><p>It is about <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>Sam has always been selfish—<em>so goddamned selfish</em>—and he doesn’t want to be <em>that</em> anymore.</p><p>Sam wants to do the <strong>right</strong> thing. <em>Just once.</em></p><p>For <strong>Dean’s</strong> sake.</p><p>And that disgust—<em>pure disdain</em>—that Dean just shot down at him when Sam <strong>forced</strong> that kiss … Sam <em>never</em> wants Dean to look at him that way, ever again.</p><p>That much Sam knows for <em>absolute</em>.</p><p>The last thing that Sam expects—<em>the last reaction from Dean to everything that he just said</em>—is what Dean does, <strong>next</strong>.</p><p>Dean turns on his heel—<em>whole body trembling</em>—grabs his jacket, swipes the room key, and <strong>slams</strong> out of their room.</p><p>Dean slams the door so hard that the motel wall and windows, rattle and shake.</p><p>Sam thought Dean would be <strong>happy</strong>. Thrilled. Elated!</p><p>Sam never expected Dean to be … was that <em>fury?</em></p><p>It happened so fast … <em>so damn fast</em> … Sam doesn’t even know what any of the wide array of emotions that flashed across Dean’s face actually were!</p><p>And … now he’s just <em>gone</em>.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Gone</em>
  </strong>
  <em> …</em>
</p><p>Sam stares at the slammed door in horror.</p><p>This is how Dean <em>always</em> deals with things, these days. So, watching Dean storm out shouldn’t really come as too much of a surprise to Sam—<em>but it does.</em></p><p>Because of that sheer, <em>reckless</em> look Dean has in his eye.</p><p>The anger isn’t as scary as that recklessness. Because Sam suddenly has an awful feeling—<em>a godawful feeling</em>—and every bone in Sam’s body is screaming for him to follow after Dean.</p><p>It’s a sick shift in the pit of his stomach—<em>a ruthless ache that doesn’t have anywhere to go</em>—and Sam knows he shouldn’t ignore it.</p><p>Sam <strong>knows</strong> the rules.</p><p>When Dean is out, Sam, is supposed to stay in the motel room. With his blade or a gun in reach. Check the salt-lines, keep outta trouble … but … this is a <strong>special</strong> circumstance.</p><p>Sam quickly heads to the nightstand, tucks his switchblade into his jacket pocket, grabs his own motel key, and hurries out after Dean.</p><p>Dean has already stormed across the street from what Sam can see. It’s already pitch-black outside with only a few shitty, dim lights to see with and Sam curses under his breath, as he scrambles to cross the street.</p><p>Sam has already lost sight of Dean around a seedy-looking joint, that is so obviously some sorta bar hangout. There are motorcycles parked out front with bad-ass dudes lurking all-around said motorcycles.</p><p>Sam can feel his stomach turn as a few of the patrons give him <em>less-than-welcoming</em> glances.</p><p>Just the way some of them are <strong>looking</strong> at Sam … Sam doesn’t like it. It is making him feel <em>fucking</em> <em>filthy …</em></p><p>Taking a few deep breaths to clear his head, Sam, gives the vandal-looking men a wide berth and rounds the bend, still trekking after Dean.</p><p>“I told ya what I was gonna do if I <em>ever</em> caught whiff of you ‘round these parts, again, <em>Boy!”</em> The gruff voice of a bulky man cuts through the alley-air.</p><p>Sam halts and presses himself against the brick wall. Peers his head around the corner and sure enough—<em>there is Dean</em>—surrounded by four hulking men Dad’s size at the very <em>least</em>.</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean answers the largest one that Sam assumes is probably the leader. “I ain’t seein’ you doin’ nothin’!”</p><p>The tall man laughs and so do his cronies.</p><p>“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, <em>Filth!”</em> The leader grabs Dean around the throat and squeezes, cutting off Dean’s airway.</p><p>“F-Fuck you!” Sam hears Dean rasp out through his constricted passage.</p><p>“You’re a filthy fuckin’ <strong><em>faggot</em></strong>, an’ I’ve had enough of you, <em>‘tunin’ tricks,’</em> round here! Let’s teach this here faggot a lesson, shall we?”</p><p>The others laugh and Sam watches with a gaping mouth as the punches start flying. Sam’s heard Dad use some of those terms a couple times before … but can’t comprehend, <em>right now</em>, how any of those things pertain to <strong>Dean</strong>.</p><p>Dean <em>isn’t</em> a prostitute … and he sure as hell ain’t <strong><em>gay</em></strong>. No one in their right mind would think that of <em>Dean …</em></p><p>
  <em>Would they?</em>
</p><p>Sam keeps waiting for Dean to fight back—<em>but he doesn’t.</em></p><p>It is like Dean <strong>wants</strong> to get his ass kicked for Christsakes!</p><p>Sam spars with Dean, still, most every evening <em>(except this one) </em>and he knows that Dean could take at least <strong>one</strong> <em>(if not all) </em>of these men down and buy himself time to flee if that is what he <strong>wanted</strong> to do … <em>but he <strong>isn’t</strong>!</em></p><p>Dean is just letting them beat him to kingdom come!</p><p>Dean is around 5’7 and Sam doesn’t quite reach Dean’s shoulder, but he isn’t gonna let Dean do <strong>this</strong>!</p><p>“Stop! <em>Stop it!”</em> Sam sprints around the corner and thankfully, the men <strong>don’t</strong> choose to fight.</p><p>They throw Dean down on the hard asphalt and spit on him.</p><p>“Next time, I cut off your dick and shove it down your throat, <em>Faggot!” </em>the largest man threatens, glancing up for a second at Sam shooting him a feral smirk, before ambling away, with the rest of his goons.</p><p>Sam kneels at Dean’s side and surveys the damage. Blood coats Dean’s mouth and there are fresh bruises littering underneath both of Dean’s eyes and all along Dean’s cheekbones.</p><p>Dean turns on his side with a groan and spits out blood that has Sam’s heart snapping in two.</p><p>“Why, Dean?! Why did you let them <strong>do</strong> this to you?” Sam whimpers out, well aware that he is at least <em>(partially)</em> to blame for this somehow.</p><p>
  <em>How?</em>
</p><p>Sam doesn’t know.</p><p>God-in-heaven, Sam, wishes he could bring himself to understand even one-iota of this shit. Because all of this makes about as much sense to Sam as the conversation they <strong>just</strong> had.</p><p>Why isn’t Dean <em>celebrating? </em>Dean has been miserable with the added-on burden of taking care of Sam <em>for years </em>… so why is he so pissed-off now that Sam set him <strong>free</strong>?</p><p>Dean winces, sitting up in order to lean his back against the brick, alley-wall.</p><p>“What’re you doin’ here, Sammy? I told you to stay in the room,” Dean mumbles with a grunt.</p><p>“No, actually you <em>didn’t,”</em> Sam shoots back while shaking his head at Dean. “And if I <em>hadn’t</em> followed you, they might’ve killed you!”</p><p>“So, <strong>what</strong>, Sammy?” Dean is … laughing …</p><p>Dean is coughing up <strong><em>blood</em></strong> and he’s fucking <strong><em>laughing</em></strong> …</p><p>Sam stares at Dean, bewildered.</p><p>“You think I <strong>care</strong>, Sammy? You think I give a fuck wha’ happens to me?” Another laugh.</p><p>Sam honestly has no idea what to make of this. <strong><em>Any</em></strong>, of this.</p><p>“I give you everything—I fuckin’ do <em>everything</em> … everything to <em>keep you</em> … to make you <strong>safe</strong> and you wanna just … just <strong>leave</strong>. Like that … <em>back to Uncle Bobby’s?”</em></p><p>Sam blinks and tilts his head, trying to comprehend what he’s hearing—<em>but it’s impossible.</em></p><p>This is <strong>impossible</strong>.</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p><em>“Fuck that, Sammy!”</em> Dean struggles to his feet and Sam helps him, practically having to hold him up in order to keep Dean from toppling back over again.</p><p>“I’m sorry, De,” Sam apologizes instantly, because he doesn’t know what else to do, right now. “I thought you were growing to <em>resent</em> me …”</p><p>Sam is no longer sure of anything, now.</p><p>
  <em>Not a goddamn thing.</em>
</p><p>“Resent you …” Dean scoffs but doesn’t elaborate.</p><p>Dean is clutching his stomach and half-doubled over in agony, as Sam guides Dean back across the street, into their hotel room, and straight into the bathroom.</p><p>Dean is quiet as Sam runs a shower, while Dean sits idly on the toilet seat lid, watching.</p><p>The water pours out of the showerhead and over Sam’s testing fingers. It heats up almost immediately and Sam turns back to Dean.</p><p>“I just wanna know <strong>why</strong> you did it, De? Why you went and got yourself <em>hurt …”</em> Sam wants to understand—has been desperate to understand everything for a long time now.</p><p>Sam can see this remoteness in Dean’s reflective green eyes. It is almost a mottled glance—almost forked with twist.</p><p>Dean is rubbing the space just under his ribs. Sam can’t see the skin for himself, but knows they must be painful as hell from those kicks Dean took, there.</p><p>“It don’t <strong>matter</strong>, Sammy. It ain’t for you to be askin.’ You’re too <em>young</em> to understand.”</p><p>Sam wants to throw a fit—wants to slap Dean and do some damage of his <strong>own</strong> to Dean’s already painful-looking skin … but what good would that do?</p><p>Dean doesn’t answer questions when he doesn’t want to and beating it out of him would do neither of them a lick of good.</p><p>“I understand <strong>enough</strong>, De. I understand that those men think you’re <em>gay—”</em></p><p>Dean’s head shoots up and his eyes turn downright feral in a flash.</p><p>“Shut your <strong>mouth</strong>, Sam!” The outright anger that exudes from Dean—<em>petrifies Sam.</em></p><p>It sends chills straight up Sam’s spine and all-throughout his entire body.</p><p>“I know you’re <strong>not</strong>, Dean! Our whole fight was about you not wantin’ to touch me! I know you aren’t—”</p><p>Dean is up off the toilet seat lid and pressing Sam to the bathroom wall before he can blink. Effectively pinning Sam between the hard tile and Dean’s front.</p><p><em>“I said, shuddup, Sammy!”</em> Dean’s breath tickles Sam’s dry lips and the close proximity to Dean has Sam’s head spinning top to bottom.</p><p><strong>Fuck</strong>.</p><p>It takes everything in Sam not to whimper and savor this closeness—<em>even if it is violent.</em></p><p>Sam blinks back tears. When Dean starts to draw back <em>(with a wince) </em>Sam makes the instantaneous decision to latch on to Dean’s shirt and keep Dean from doing so.</p><p>Dean seems to realize his mistake and tries to back up, but Sam only holds tighter to Dean’s shirt—<em>refusing to let-up.</em></p><p>“Why does it feel <strong>different</strong> when we are this close, De? Why do I feel like the whole damn <em>world</em> is standin’ still and like … like you an’ me are <em>closer than close?</em> Why do I feel like you want things, too, every time we’re <strong>like</strong> this?” Sam lets out the questions that have been burning holes in him for years, now.</p><p>Even if Dean refuses to answer—at least Sam knows they are out there.</p><p>These questions will linger between them like stale barn-hay in the air.</p><p> Waiting—<em>hoping</em>—to be answered with some sorta finality.</p><p>Sam sees Dean’s hands shake, while lowering from Sam’s shirt. That off-kilter, feral thing is back in Dean’s eyes, now, all of a sudden and Dean’s chest feels tight and strained under Sam’s palms.</p><p>“Let. Me. Go. Sammy,” Dean enunciates each word in slow carefully restrained and precise tones and syllables.</p><p>Sam can sense the air between them, though. Something has changed in it. There is almost this … this <strong>yearning</strong> that Sam knows Dean can feel, too.</p><p>So why is Dean <em>fighting</em> this?</p><p>“I just did, remember?” Sam keeps his fists holding tight to Dean’s shirt, but his currently tight-gripped hands aren’t what Sam is referencing. “You went out and almost got yourself <em>killed …”</em></p><p>Torture shadows Dean’s face and Dean’s pupils blow wide. There is too much buried in Dean for Sam to sus out, but Sam knows that there is a whole lot of something that is waiting to be uncovered just under Dean’s prickly, barriered surface.</p><p>Sam just doesn’t know what that <em>something</em> is.</p><p>Shower steam builds up in the bathroom air with thick wispy swirls.</p><p>Dean lifts his hands to physically detach Sam’s from his t-shirt.</p><p><em>“Stop it, Sam,”</em> Dean breathes.</p><p>“Stop <strong>what</strong>, Dean?” Sam allows his hands to fall at his sides, when Dean releases his wrists.</p><p>“Just <em>stop.</em> Stop <em>digging …</em> stop <em>goading …</em> just let things go back to the way they <strong>were</strong>. I’m <em>beggin’</em> you, Sammy,” Dean’s voice returns to that of a soft, comely and affectionate lull.</p><p>
  <em>Just like that.</em>
</p><p>Sam swallows and tries to understand what Dean wants—What Dean is truly asking him.</p><p>“Back to <strong>what</strong>? Back to <em>touches and tears?”</em> Sam dares to challenge, though with a much softer edge to his tone.</p><p><em>“Please, Sammy.</em> Do this for <em>me.”</em></p><p>Sam doesn’t even really know what Dean is asking for.</p><p>What <strong><em>is</em></strong> Dean asking Sam for?</p><p> Sam stares at Dean, perplexed, then makes the decision to concede. He doesn’t want Dean storming back off, again.</p><p>Not when Dean is like this …</p><p>“Clean yourself up, De … I know you are gonna want your privacy. I’ll just wait in bed …”</p><p>Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to respond.</p><p>Instead, Sam, turns and heads out of the bathroom with a <em>‘click,’</em> so much more confused than he was <em>before</em>.</p><p>With less answers now than he started with—and way more questions than Sam ever could have <strong>anticipated</strong> at the start of tonight.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xvii. slow guilt-riddled things such as this.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>These past years have been like splitting apart a soul and drawing the pieces back into place.</p><p>Dean has had the inner-workings of his mind blown apart, repeatedly, and thrust back together—supposedly with the final purpose of making him <strong>whole</strong>.</p><p>Years of sneaking out into the dark from an endless train of motel rooms with Dad in toe. Being pressed and fucked into the leather Impala seats, until Dean inevitably bleeds and breaks some more.</p><p>The leather and masculine scent of, Dad, always sticks with Dean. Like this nonsequential burn in his nostrils—<em>like a mark of the devil himself.</em></p><p>It’s something <strong>indescribable</strong>.</p><p>The monotonous words Dad repeats to Dean every time that he gives Dad the promised payment <em>(for the privilege of mindful detachment via painkillers),</em> Dean, is taught to <strong>hate</strong> his own skin even more than the previous time.</p><p>Over and over, Dean, hears the word <em>‘Faggot,’</em> or <em>‘Queer,’</em> leave Dad’s lips and there is this claw of panic all over again.</p><p>It roots and claws until Dean can’t think about anything else.</p><p>Then—<em>when it’s over</em>—Dean will take his prize<em> (pain pills and cash for Sammy) </em>and wait for the <strong>next</strong> time.</p><p>Because there is <em>always</em> a next time.</p><p>The years are like little threaded beads for Dean, now.</p><p>Months flash by in a <strong>blink</strong> … days in a <em>nanosecond</em> …</p><p>Time only seems to slow when Sammy starts asking his overwhelming questions about things.</p><p>Things Sammy shouldn’t <em>know</em> about.</p><p>Things that Dean does—<em>not because he has to</em>—but because he is already so low that he doesn’t even remotely think the bar can dip and delve any conceivably lower.</p><p>To combat, Dad’s, belief that Dean is a <em>‘Faggot,’</em> Dean, started charming girls right after Sam’s eighth birthday. Started wearing denim and leather like, Dad, does and winkin’ at every pretty <em>‘Chick,’</em> in the vicinity.</p><p>Dean lost his virginity to men—but his <em>‘pure-faggot’</em> nature to <em>chicks</em>.</p><p>Dean has gone down on females—<em>kissed, fucked, and pleasured more than he can count</em>—and it’s all meant absolutely nothing.</p><p>Hell. Dean can’t even seem to remember ninety-percent of their names, but they <em>exist</em>. And Dean is attracted to them—for the night he spends in their beds, <em>(or whatever corner, alleyway, or hiding place they manage to find to fuck in) </em>anyway.</p><p>Still. Something sick bubbles up in Dean from time to time. Dean once promised himself that he would never start <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks’</em> for cashflow, again.</p><p>But he has, since, <strong>broken</strong> that promise.</p><p>Not really for the money it provides, but because it reminds him of his cheapness—<em>his worthlessness</em>s—and how low down the totem pole of life he’s fallen.</p><p>All in the name of <em>‘Savin’ Sammy.’</em></p><p>Dean has pissed off the locals on more than one occasion. It comes with the territory. Hitting on <em>men</em> in seedy alleyways. Giving blowjobs in a bathroom stall, or letting coarse, vile hands touch him <strong>everywhere</strong>—<em>enough to get him off in his bottoms.</em></p><p>Whatever, Dean, does it is a <strong>reminder</strong>.</p><p><em>Just</em> a reminder that he <em>shouldn’t</em> touch, Sammy, as much.</p><p>That every iota of touch Dean exudes winds him up and taints pure, <em>beautiful</em>, <em>Sammy,</em> all the more.</p><p>Every night, however, Sammy, still expects Dean to touch him.</p><p>And every night Dean does what Sammy <em>asks</em> of him.</p><p>Like clockwork. Even though, <em>now</em>, when Dean pushes his fingers underneath the hem of Sammy’s shirt to get at hot, clothing-warmed flesh, Dean, senses the impact it has on Sam.</p><p>Dean often <em>feels</em> the stiff poke of need through Sam’s boxers—<em>Dean knows what his touch inflicts</em> … How it rouses up his kid-brother. And corrupts Sam just like Dad told Dean his touch <em>can</em> poison and corrupt.</p><p>It is unimaginable—living with the knowledge that his touch is <strong><em>ruining</em></strong> Sam.</p><p>
  <em>Graze by graze … Day after day …</em>
</p><p>Making Sammy want Dean in ways that he <strong>never</strong> should.</p><p>So, Dean, does his best to steer clear of Sammy. Touches, until he feels Sam drift to sleep <em>(stiff and full in his boxers) </em>so that Dean can cry and dry-retch into the toilet.</p><p>Dean has to pop constant pills just to catch some sleep—Just to climb back into bed, kiss Sam on the forehead, and allow Sam to sleepily monkey-cling to him, all over again, all through the night.</p><p>These same patterns repeat, time and time, again.</p><p>Over and over, until, Dean, wonders how much more he can take. Can a person just crack?</p><p>Is this what <em>that</em> feels like?</p><p>
  <em>Cracking?</em>
</p><p>Because Dean swears that when Sam stood before him, tonight, with those tear-cut eyes and talked about being abandoned at Bobby’s and setting Dean free—it felt like something fucking snapped …</p><p>It felt <em>(to Dean)</em> like the air was sucked outta the room and like suffocation—like death—was encroaching on him in a second’s notice.</p><p>Despite every single precaution that Dean has taken these last three years <em>(only touching Sammy at night, avoiding Sammy after school, making his interest in chicks a no-brainer … ect.)</em> Sam has still fallen in love with him.</p><p>And it was—<em>is</em>—love that Dean witnessed in Sam’s eyes and Sam’s words, tonight. There is no other explanation for it.</p><p>
  <em>And, God, it fucking hurts!</em>
</p><p>Dean has failed in his mission to make Sammy normal—to give Sammy that perfectly innocent childhood that Dean never has had the privilege of knowing for himself.</p><p>Dean loves Sam—<em>more than anyone else</em>—more than breathing, even.</p><p>
  <em>And <strong>goddamn</strong>! </em>
</p><p>There isn’t a single thing Dean wouldn’t do for Sammy if asked—<em>if necessary</em>—yet, knowing that he failed Sam in the most profound of ways?</p><p>It’s <em>untenable</em>.</p><p>Because it means that Dad was—<em>is</em>—right.</p><p>Sam’s innocence—<em>his soul</em>—<strong><em>was</em></strong>, beyond saving, three years ago, when Dad nefariously told him so, on Sammy’s eighth birthday.</p><p>The intense <em>(unbrotherly)</em> bond that Dean forged between Sam and himself, that first time <em>(when Sam was a toddler and Dean unsnapped Sam’s onesie to get at the flesh underneath) </em>he <strong>forever</strong> ruined Sam.</p><p>Ruined Sam’s psyche—<em>ruined Sam’s need</em>—and ruined Sam for anyone else—<em>ever.</em></p><p>That scares the ever-living <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> outta, Dean.</p><p>Because it means no matter what he does … no matter what path Dean takes, now, Sam, is forever gonna be fucked-up by it.</p><p>But what tore at him the most during Sam’s confession, was the blasé way that Sam just mentioned being <em>dumped</em> back at Bobby’s, like it was no big deal.</p><p>That is what snapped Dean and set him way off course, tonight.</p><p>Sam is the <strong><em>one</em></strong> thing … the one <em>iota</em> of good that Dean even <strong>has</strong> in this fucked-up world.</p><p>Dad ruins Dean emotionally—tortures Dean’s skin and represses his mind into blackholes and a sweeping tundra of mindless ache.</p><p>While those of the female persuasion leave little indents on Dean’s inside and make him feel somewhat filthy for having to use them to convince Dad of his conceptual <em>worth</em>.</p><p>But, Sammy … <em>Perfect. Touchable. Sammy …</em></p><p>Sammy is Dean’s <em>one</em> salvation in all this world.</p><p>And Sammy <em>set <strong>him</strong> free?</em></p><p>Dean, selfishly, doesn’t want freedom from Sammy, despite knowing that that is what would be best for the kid.</p><p><strong><em>His</em></strong> kid—<em>his Sammy …</em></p><p>All, Dean, had heard in that moment was that Sammy wanted to either be <em>corrupted</em> by Dean or else dumped off at Bobby’s like <em>trash </em>with no in-between—<em>and it was more than Dean could process, let alone handle.</em></p><p>The first thought to run through his mind was how much he deserved to get the shit beat out of him—<em>how completely fucking right Dad has always been about everything—</em>and how fucked-up his life has actually become.</p><p>Dean feels untouchable <em>(which is the main reason why Dean stopped letting Sammy feel around underneath his clothes)</em> every day of his life.</p><p>And Dean still can’t wrap his head around <em>why</em> Sammy has fallen for him—<em>why Sammy tries to drink up all the air in every room when they share it?</em></p><p>How is he supposed to <em>protect</em> Sammy when everything is so fucked to bits?</p><p>Dean had been confronted by those biker members, days ago, for being a <em>‘Faggot,’</em> after accidently misreading a situation.</p><p>Those men and their fists were the <strong>perfect</strong> punishment for Dean and his misguidance of Sammy.</p><p>So, now, Dean, has bruised, <strong>unclean</strong> flesh. And no matter how much he stands here, in this damned shower—<em>scrubbing at the maimed-up surfac</em>e—these marks and scars that contort and fray his mind and soul—<em>will never rinse clean.</em></p><p>Dean is trying to decide <strong>what</strong> to do.</p><p>What <em>can</em> he do?</p><p>Sammy is more determined than ever to goad Dean into something, now.</p><p>Dean let a little too much of his vulnerability—<em>his weaknesses—</em>show, and now … now shit is real fucking <strong>bad</strong>.</p><p>Dean succumbs to the pressure of the water—<em>to the fresh heat that cascades over him.</em></p><p>
  <em>Flesh and bone and blood.</em>
</p><p>He finds himself dozing off into space, thinking about Sam. Right now, he doesn’t even know how long he has actually been standing here.</p><p>
  <strong>Thinking.</strong>
</p><p>Dean reaches out and turns the nob. Effectively ending his shower.</p><p>The pain in his muscles is par for the course, but Dean doesn’t pop a pill—<em>because Sammy knows he does that now</em>—and instead glimpses his fogged-up movement in the mirror.</p><p>Wipes the fog from the drippy-glass and thinks about punching it. Destroying this reflective <em>prism</em> of pain like he has before.</p><p>
  <em>Dean doesn’t.</em>
</p><p>Instead, he towels off his marked-up skin and narrowly refrains from making a fresh cut to remind him of his seemingly endless disgusting traits—and why he shouldn’t be allowed to lay beside Sam at night.</p><p>All the things Sam knows—<em>is aware of</em>—haunts Dean to his very core and has for years—if he is <strong>completely</strong> honest with himself.</p><p>However, Dean, has continuously hurt Sammy—<strong><em>his</em></strong><em> Sammy</em>—so much these past years and not even known about it.</p><p>He thought that shutting Sammy out <em>(from most everything)</em> would have the desired effect of freeing Sam from the enticement of Dean and his <em>‘poison,’</em> touch. Not driven the poor kid, <em>bonkers</em>.</p><p>How could he have been so blind? <em>So goddamn reckless?</em></p><p><em>‘Your touch is poison, Boy,’ </em>those words spoken by Dad countless times over these past years, lodge in his mind like hazardous glue.</p><p>His hands start to tremor. He fists them to ground himself.</p><p>Weakness <em>isn’t</em> an option right now.</p><p>Somehow, someway, Dean, has to go out there and put Sammy <em>right</em>.</p><p>Because, weakness, is what that beatdown in the alleyway was—and Sammy could never understand <strong><em>why</em></strong> Dean sought that. Needed that closeness with <em>death</em> to carry on with <strong>living</strong>.</p><p>Dean never heard Sammy come into the bathroom while he was dazing in the shower, but a fresh set of clothes is neatly laid out on the toilet seat lid.</p><p>Sammy knows by now that Dean positively <em>refuses</em> to change with Sammy and his watchful eyes in the same room.</p><p>Dean feels his chest tighten. Taking a moment to change.</p><p>Tugs on the oversize nightshirt, first, then pulls on the pair of clean plaid boxers.</p><p>Presentable as he is ever going to get, Dean, exits the bathroom. Discarding his used towel in the corner for housekeeping to deal with.</p><p>Sammy’s eyes are on him. He can sense them there the second he steps back into the main room.</p><p>Skin crawling, Dean, makes quick work of switching off all of the lights, before he climbs into bed at Sammy’s hip.</p><p>The mattress is uncomfortable, <em>(especially for him)</em> due to the fresh bruises from his beatdown that his whole body is currently suffering, but that, too, is just par for the course these days.</p><p>Lying here, now, with Sam inches from his face, there is that same thick-like build in the air <em>(from the bathroom) </em>and it’s markedly difficult to breathe.</p><p>Now, that he knows his touch is not <em>only</em> poison, but fueling Sammy’s whole damn, spank-bank? Dean, feels even queasier about this closeness that they share.</p><p>More-so than he did in the past.</p><p>Dean had only been continuing to touch Sammy because he figured, <em>eventually</em>, that he could wean Sammy off of them.</p><p>That, given time, Dean, could stop this physical contact altogether and Sam wouldn’t <em>mind …</em></p><p>
  <em>Fuck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was, Dean, ever wrong about so much shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean is reasonably <strong>nervous</strong> to touch, tonight.</p><p>They are in the cover of darkness <em>(like Dean prefers them to be whenever he carries through with this act)</em> but he can almost feel Sam’s stare burning holes into the underside of his skin. Like some sorta damn campfire.</p><p>And it’s <em>unnerving.</em></p><p>Dean is still psyching himself up into initiating touch with Sammy when sudden <strong>pressure</strong> closes in on his mouth.</p><p>Sam is <em>kissing</em> him!</p><p>All of the sudden and outta absolutely <strong>nowhere</strong>!</p><p>With teeth and tongue that eases apart Dean’s lips and causes this initial reaction of <em>gut-need</em> in him.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck!</em>
</p><p>Initially, Dean, returns the kiss with fervor, before he can think about what it is, exactly, that he is even doing.</p><p>And suddenly, physical <strong><em>contact</em></strong>, isn’t so hard at all.</p><p>His hands rise to Sam’s hips. Plant themselves there and worm underneath the hem of Sam’s shirt.</p><p>It’s like the same hormonal instinct that overcomes Dean when he is caught up in the drivel of sex with <em>chicks</em>. Girls are sensitive to touch <em>(much the same as Sammy)</em> and <strong><em>always</em></strong> like it when Dean caresses underneath their shirts.</p><p>Dean snaps out of it, however, when he reaches Sam’s flat, amicable chest and hard-nubbed nipples, and Sammy lets out high-pitched keens.</p><p>
  <em>Shit!</em>
</p><p>“What are you <em>doin,’</em> Sammy?” Dean asks, breathless. Trying to regather his bearings.</p><p>Sammy only pulls himself in closer and sucks in a deep breath of relatively hot, thick air.</p><p>“I <em>love</em> you, De,” Sam whispers in this husky, tight, <em>half-moan,</em> that immediately has Dean’s insides clench, reactively.</p><p>“I know, Sammy …” It is really fucking with Dean’s head to know what he’s stirred-up in his kid-brother, all these years.</p><p>This indecipherable <em>‘love’</em> that should never be, but just … <em>is</em>.</p><p>Sammy sinks his teeth into his bottommost pout and Dean reaches out to thumb at the fleshy-thing. Sam pokes his tongue against Dean’s thumb and laps at it, languidly, sending shivers rippling everywhere in Dean, instantaneously.</p><p>
  <em>Goddamn …</em>
</p><p>Sammy moves in closer and Dean can feel the poke of Sam’s little need, jutting out against Sam’s boxers. Prime against Dean’s belly even through the cotton of his t-shirt.</p><p>This profound urgency in Sam is almost <strong>primal</strong>—<em>Dean can sense it</em>—tasted it in the kiss, even.</p><p>“I <strong>want</strong> you, De … and I … I know you want me, too. I sensed it in the bathroom. When you kissed me so <em>needily</em> …” Sam says and it’s so unfulfilled and skimming on <strong>brazenness</strong>.</p><p>Dean has to refrain from letting out a needful sound, all his own. Because he is well aware of his own wholly <strong>unnatural</strong> hankering for Sam. Its lived in his fucked-up bloodstream, <em>forever</em>.</p><p>“We <em>can’t</em>, Sammy … <strong>I</strong> can’t …” hoarse words fall outta Dean’s mouth and he has to clear it of the lump that’s formed.</p><p>Sammy latches onto Dean’s shirt, <em>(same as Sam used to do when he was little) </em>then pushes his seeking nose into the curve of Dean’s neck.</p><p>“You fuck and fondle chicks, but you ‘<em>can’t’</em> with me? Why not, De? I <strong>ache</strong> for you … I love you <em>more</em> than any of them ever <em>could</em> …” Sam is a whining, pleading <strong>mess</strong> of skin and bones and primarily <em>(overly-hormonal)</em> teenage <em>need</em>—<em>and it is a lot for Dean to take.</em></p><p>His senses feel like they are in overdrive—<em>every ounce of him wants to cave</em>—wants to give and take and not look back …</p><p>But there is <strong><em>always</em></strong> going to be something in Dean that tells him that this is goddamn <em>wrong</em>—that Sammy <strong>can’t</strong> be a <em>‘Faggot,’</em> like he is.</p><p>Enjoying the pleasure of another boy’s company ain’t <em>right</em>—just like Dad <strong>says</strong> it ain’t.</p><p>And Sammy deserves the normalcy that Dean will never know … <em>none of this is fair.</em> It’s all twisted-up and gnarled to bits.</p><p>And Dean promised himself, long ago, that Sammy wouldn’t suffer like Dean does—<em>that Sammy would be fucking <strong>normal</strong> …</em></p><p>“’Cause, Sammy ….” Dean weakens by the instant and is <em>ready</em> to cave.  Even though he knows that he can’t—<em>he won’t</em>—he fucking <strong>shouldn’t</strong>!</p><p>
  <em>Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!</em>
</p><p>Sammy is <em>moving</em>, now.</p><p>Snakes both legs around Dean’s waist until their crotches touch.</p><p>
  <em>Heat against heat.</em>
</p><p>And Sam can probably feel the hard press of Dean through the crotch of his boxers—<em>identically hard and steeped with ache and need.</em></p><p>“I’m not <em>little</em>, anymore, De. I <strong>know</strong> what I’m askin’ for.”</p><p>“No, you fuckin’ <strong>don’t</strong>,” Dean croaks, “’An you’re <em>still</em> little, Sammy …”</p><p>Dean doesn’t pray anymore <em>(Dean has lost all faith in those damn angels Mom talked about)</em> but right now—<em>he is goddamned praying!</em></p><p>He’s praying to anyone that will listen, for Sammy to grasp the <strong><em>why</em></strong> of this—<em>just this once</em>.</p><p>And most of all, Dean, is praying for the strength to <strong>resist</strong> Sammy—<em>resist the temptation that <strong>is</strong> Sammy.</em></p><p>Sam bucks his lithe hips forward. Persuades the bulk of their needs to grind together in a mixture of <strong>glorious</strong> friction and material.</p><p>Dean hisses in his throat. Tightens his fingers, clenching down on Sam’s hips, that he honestly doesn’t even remember gripping onto in the first damn place <em>(but he must have at some point or another)</em> in the thick of this <strong>rising</strong> lust.</p><p>“I’m <em>eleven</em>, De! I know what I want. And I <strong>want</strong> this—<em>want you …”</em></p><p>Sam presses a slew of hot kisses up Dean’s clavicle and jaw. Which only feeds these rising impulses between them, all the more.</p><p>Dean almost chokes on a sob when Sam reminds him of his youth.</p><p>Sam is the exact same age that Dean was when <em>he</em> lost everything that made up his innocence and childhood.</p><p>The same age as Dean when the world broke him apart. Ripping him <strong>remorselessly</strong> to shreds.</p><p>“S-Sammy … <em>please</em> … don’t beg me to do that … not to <em>you</em> … I couldn’t <strong>live</strong> with myself …”</p><p>Dean <em>already</em> can’t live with himself, <em>now</em>.</p><p>Between the Florida heat that currently makes up this damn motel room and the sweat-laced body of Sammy—<em>so hot and antsy with need—</em>primed and <strong>willing</strong> against him …</p><p>Dean is a goddamned <em>train-wreck!</em></p><p>“And I can’t take another Summer of livin’ with your touch and knowin’ that everyone else gets to have <strong><em>all</em></strong> of you, while I barely have one <em>scrap</em> of you …” Sam argues.</p><p>Damn if Sammy didn’t just aim for Dean’s heart and shoot to kill!</p><p>And Damn if Sam isn’t winning Dean over to <strong>his</strong> side of things …</p><p>Sam doesn’t give Dean a second to comprehend what is even being said before Sam has rejoined their lips.</p><p>Sucking and lapping at the inside of Dean’s mouth in seconds.</p><p>All Dean can do is react—<em>unwittingly granting Sam access to push right in.</em></p><p>Dean steels himself against Sammy’s warm frame and tries <em>desperately</em> to catch his breath while Sammy ruts his hips forward, continuously. Taunting and teasing until Dean is primed to all-but, <strong>burst</strong>, with it.</p><p><em>“S-Sammy …”</em> he whines when Sam eventually comes up for air.</p><p><em>“Make me</em> <em>yours, De.</em> I don’t wanna be confused, no more. I don’t wanna <strong>hurt</strong>, no more …”</p><p><strong>Fuck</strong>—<em>that does it!</em></p><p>Words and phrases like <em>that</em> one, are Dean’s kryptonite. He can’t stand to watch Sammy suffer—<em>especially because of him</em>.</p><p>All of this confusion—<em>all of these conflicting feelings and emotions</em>—begin and end with <strong>Dean</strong>.</p><p>These unclean—<em>impure</em>—urges that have existed for too <em>damn</em> long, between them.</p><p>Dean has always known he was not alone in them—but willed himself to believe that he was, because it is easier than facing this truth.</p><p>Sammy is fucking in ‘<em>love’</em> with him!</p><p>Which isn’t possible because Dean has <em>never</em> been lovable, Dad, says so, practically all the damn time.</p><p>As the seconds rapidly tick by, logic is <em>rapidly</em> disintegrating. Dean is succumbing to his every impure urge.</p><p>They are broiling up and screaming for Dean to act—<em>right now.</em></p><p>Something burns <em>possessively</em> inside Dean. It’s sudden and twisted, like this ebbing flash of insecurity that simmers then soars to life underneath his skin.</p><p>Dean’s right-hand lowers down the span of Sam’s body. Touches-down between Sam’s paltry thighs, inside of his boxers. Dean grips down, <em>tight</em>, to Sam’s ramped-up need.</p><p>If this is what Sam wants then Dean can’t keep fighting it.</p><p>And certainly not <em>forever …</em></p><p>“Tell me what you’re wantin’ from me, Sammy. Use those <em>‘Big Boy’</em> words you’re so fond of. What will take yer hurt away? <em>‘M?”</em></p><p>Dean can hardly breathe—<em>hardly fuckin’ function</em>—with Sammy in his space, taking up all the air that there is.</p><p>Squeaks hurdle in the air as Sam reacts to Dean’s touch down <em>south</em>.</p><p>Sam’s little mouth parts. Hitches are made of his breath. Stoppering-up his breathing and causing a darkish-red blush to spread all-throughout his face.</p><p>“Want y-you … <em>inside</em> me …”</p><p>Dean has to close his eyes to stemmer his distress. Because he already <em>knew</em> what Sam was asking, but hoped against hope that Sam didn’t understand sex like Dean understands it, yet.</p><p>Sam apparently has been paying too close of attention to the world around him.</p><p>
  <em>As usual.</em>
</p><p>That jealousy sparks back up outta nowhere. Pumps through Dean’s veins and threatens to explode out of him in a scream—<em>or a burst.</em></p><p>Dean’s next words surprise, <em>even him.</em></p><p>“If I go <strong>that</strong> far, Sammy … If I …” Dean clears his throat. “You ain’t <em>never</em> gonna let no other man inside of you, Sammy. I need you to make me that <em>promise.”</em></p><p>Sam gives off a glance of confusion, through the mask of evident pleasure. Squirming this way and that, Sam, can’t sit still, while Dean rubs at his sensitive, <em>leaky</em> part.</p><p>“Why would I ask a <em>s-stranger</em>, De?”</p><p>Damn, Sam, <em>and</em> his questions!</p><p>“I dunno. Same reason you’re askin’ it of <em>me</em>. Lust. Horniness. Whatever,” Dean elaborates as he desperately tries <em>(and fails)</em> not to think of Dad and what he would think and say if he caught them like this, <em>right now.</em></p><p>“This is … It’s <strong>more</strong> than l-lust, De … I <em>l-love</em> you,” Sammy somehow manages to whimper out, while bucking and rutting his hips for friction.</p><p>Dean feels his heart constrict.</p><p>The room grows heavier and the air thicker than before. Fiery heat spreads through him—but on the back-edge of all of this there is also a wave of <em>shame</em>, too.</p><p>Shame that never <strong>fully</strong> goes away in Dean. <em>Never.</em></p><p>
  <em>It’s part of Dean and it can’t leave. </em>
</p><p>“Yeah? Well, I won’t have you bein’ a <em>faggot</em>, Sammy. You <strong>hear</strong> me?” he tells Sam—and knows it is Dad and the ideals Dad has ingrained in his head that drives him to say it. “So, I <em>never</em> want to hear ‘bout or catch you <em>underneath</em> another man. I want yer promise, Sammy. I want you to <strong>swear</strong> to me that you ain’t never gonna let no other man touch you like <em>this …”</em></p><p>Dad already thinks Sammy is <em>‘too soft,’</em> if Dad ever were to catch wind of Sam’s sexual deviance?</p><p>That would be the <strong>end</strong> of it.</p><p>Promise or no promise, Dad, wouldn’t hesitate to take Sammy <strong><em>far</em></strong> away from Dean.</p><p>Dean can’t even fathom what Dad would do to Sam because of this.</p><p>Dean’s sole instinct is to <strong>protect</strong> Sammy—<em>at all costs.</em></p><p>Sam flinches with Dean’s casual use of <em>‘that’</em> word and Dean notices tears are now brimming Sammy’s eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>“What’s so <strong><em>wrong</em></strong> with this, De? Why do you fight it <em>so</em> damn hard? Is it me? Am I … am I <em>wrong</em>, De?”</p><p>
  <em>God fucking damnit!</em>
</p><p>Dean wants to scream—wants to march back through that damned door and let those men have a <strong>second</strong> go at him.</p><p>But … <em>Sammy</em> needs him right now.</p><p>Needs this … this … <strong><em>fuckery</em></strong> to feel better …</p><p>And in earnest Dean <em>needs,</em> Sam, too. Probably way <strong>more</strong> than Sam needs <strong>him</strong>.</p><p>Dean experiences Sam’s little poke of <em>need</em> throb in his fist and releases it. Uses his arm, instead, to draw Sam nearer, until their fronts are <em>hard-pressed</em> up against one another.</p><p>“Just be a <em>good</em> boy and make me that promise, Sammy.” Dean sidesteps Sammy’s impossible question in true <em>‘Winchester’</em> form, while nudging his nose <em>against</em> Sam’s cheek.</p><p>Dean uses his freed-up fingers to slide back underneath Sam’s clothes. Fondling his waist. Seeking out all of Sam’s <em>weakest</em> points. Exploiting Sam’s <em>need</em> for touch and overly sensitive skin to avoid the questions., via distraction.</p><p>It works. <em>Thankfully.</em></p><p>Sam flexes his muscles and <em>squirms</em>, aptly. Then, whimpers out a low keen mixed with a soft, <em>‘Promise, De,’</em> in the interim.</p><p>Dean can relax<em> (a little bit) </em>knowing that Sam will keep his promise, even if it <strong>kills</strong> him—and Dean gives off the smallest of sighs. Still fighting like a ‘<em>son-of-a-bitch</em>,’ to tamper his own urgencies.</p><p>This heated touch and kiss-laden session has Dean rock-solid in his bottoms and sensitive all over—<em>oh, so goddamned sensitive!</em></p><p>Sam must be able to feel the prod against his belly <em>(even through both of their layers of clothes) </em>and Dean has to steady himself.</p><p>Because with chicks, this sorta thing is <strong>simple</strong>.</p><p>Dean uses his hands to get a girl wet and needy for it. Then finds her entrance with a few plods of his eager fingers—<em>and ruts with her. </em></p><p>Good and slow—<em>or if he’s as horny as he is right now</em>—rough and fast.</p><p>Sammy is gonna be different, though.</p><p>He’s tight and virginal—<em>and petite.</em></p><p>Smaller than Dean was at Sammy’s age and so much more <em>sensitive</em> to physical contact, too.</p><p>Dad taunts Dean for his own teenage hormones and neediness when it comes to touch … well, if Dad could see Sammy right now—<em>No!</em></p><p>Dean has to shut his mind off or else he is never gonna be able to follow through with this.</p><p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p><p>Dean grips tight to Sam’s shirt and tugs it swiftly overhead. Following it up with Sam’s boxers, seconds after.</p><p>Now, with Sam on full-display to Dean’s hungry eyes, Dean, has to remind himself that this is <em>just</em> between Sam and him—that Dad is <strong>never</strong> gonna know how far and low Dean has fallen.</p><p>That this inward press of sinful hankering has <em>finally</em> come too far.</p><p>It has been a while since Dean has seen Sammy buck-naked. Since, <em>God</em> <em>…</em> At least since he used to wash Sammy during bath time in shitty motel bathtubs.</p><p>Sammy is fresh and pink all over. With tinges of red heat that color his chest, belly and pelvis. Sammy’s cock is red and thick with blood—and Dean can hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears from a combination of want and ache, all his own—<em>at the handsome sight.</em></p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Fuck</em>
  </strong>
  <em>!</em>
</p><p><em>‘Calm down, Dean!’</em> he thinks to himself, while hovering over Sam with his hands pressed to the mattress.</p><p>Sammy pants and wets his lips with his pink tongue. Pupils blown with lust.</p><p>Dean promised himself that they would never wind up here, in <strong>this</strong> position, with little Sammy at his disposal …</p><p>Just as Dean is about to stand up off the bed and storm out of the room, Sam, leans up, <em>(seeming to sense Dean’s inherent and sudden panic)</em> pulls Dean down by his cotton t-shirt, and melds their tongues and lips, together.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck! Fuck!</em>
</p><p>Focused on the kiss, Dean, lowers himself over Sam’s smaller figure. Frames Sam’s face between his larger <em>(rougher) </em>hands, and sucks on Sammy’s tongue.</p><p>Some of Dean’s anxiety simmering away in this melty, steamy rush that <em>is,</em> <strong><em>his,</em></strong> Sammy …</p><p>Sammy is like this fragile, beautiful creature and Dean is this trumped-up wreckage that plans to cut and scar every bit of skin and perfection this creature has to offer.</p><p>It’s wrong and yet Sammy makes it <em>right …</em></p><p>Right, with stupid reasoning and strategic prompts and words.</p><p>When the kiss breaks, Dean, strains to take in air and feels the Florida heat creeping up on him. Producing sweat under his clothes.</p><p>Dean wants rid of the hot, clingy fabric—<em>right goddamn now!</em></p><p>As if reading his mind, Sam, whispers, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen <em>you</em>, De.” Sam swallows nervously and his greenish eyes flick down. <em>“<strong>All</strong></em> of you,” Sam traces both hands down Dean’s clothed chest. “Can I … undress <em>you?”</em></p><p>Dean can feel Sam’s hands twitch. Anticipation hovers in the air like a living, breathing thing nestled between them.</p><p>Panic settles like a pit in his belly and Dean thinks for a moment about what Sam will <em>find</em> underneath.</p><p>Lately, Dean, treats clothes like a second skin. Like a layer of protection between his inhuman—<em>scarred-up</em>—nightmarish epidermis and Sam’s curious gaze.</p><p>Dad <em>breathes</em> on Dean and tells him that his skin is as poisonous as his <strong>hands</strong> are. That he should hide it from the world. From <em>Sam</em>—practice modesty around his little brother. And, so, Dean, <strong>has</strong>.</p><p>Now … now Sam is asking Dean for that vulnerability back.</p><p>Dean has to steel himself—remind himself that Sammy <strong><em>won’t</em></strong> hurt him. Sammy <strong><em>loves</em></strong> him.</p><p>“Alright, Sammy. Sure,” Dean relents.</p><p>Sam wastes no time in helping Dean outta his clean clothes. First, the t-shirt, then boxers.</p><p>Dean shivers <em>(despite the mugginess in the room)</em> while Sammy surveys him with his hands and his eyes.</p><p>Dean refuses to look down at himself. To see what Sammy is seeing. Instead, he keeps his optics trained down on Sammy.</p><p>Watches, <em>Sammy,</em> watching <strong><em>him</em></strong>.</p><p>Tears well in Sammy’s eyes and his teeth sink into his bottommost lip. Bruises, scars, cuts, wreckage … that is what remains of Dean’s once, <em>desirable</em> skin.</p><p>Between Dad and his cruel taunts, and Dean’s own insecurities—Dean’s skin is not safe from wanton abuse.</p><p>Self-inflicted or <em>otherwise</em>.</p><p>Prickles ignite in a flurry all-throughout Dean’s body, head to toe, and Dean wants to cover himself back up.</p><p>
  <em>Fucking desperately.</em>
</p><p><em>“De …”</em> Sammy is speechless and that is so much worse than if he just said Dean is outright <strong>ugly</strong>, like Dean is well-aware that he is.</p><p>
  <em>Dean hates his own reflection, so how could <strong>Sammy</strong> like what he sees?</em>
</p><p>“I know … It’s … <em>I’m</em> gross, Sammy. I’m … I’m <strong>damaged</strong>, okay? Just let me put my shirt back on …” Dean hurries out an excuse between blubbers and goes to reach for his nearby <em>(discarded)</em> t-shirt.</p><p>Sam reaches out and stops him, before he can even grasp it.</p><p><em>“No,”</em> Sammy disagrees. “Don’t say that, De. You’re <em>not</em>. You could <strong>never</strong> be ugly. I just … didn’t realize how <strong>bad</strong> things have gotten … for <em>you</em>, De …”</p><p>This is the first time in … well … since Dean can <strong>remember</strong>, that Sammy is actually comforting <strong><em>him</em></strong>—<strong><em>Dean</em></strong>. It is <em>always</em> the other way around. Dean offers Sammy unconditional love and comfort—<em>touch and pleasure</em>—while Dean suffers on his own.</p><p>There is never anything <strong>good</strong> for, Dean. Hell, even when Dean seeks out random <em>chicks</em>, they don’t get to see him shirtless.</p><p>Dean keeps this part of him to himself.</p><p>At <strong><em>all</em></strong> damned times.</p><p>But … Sammy is Sammy and Dean will always have this weakness—this, <em>need</em>, to give Sammy whatever he desires.</p><p>Even if Dean <em>breaks</em> over it.</p><p>“Things ain’t … Sammy, <em>I’m fine.”</em> Always the big brother—<em>the protector</em>—the goddamn liar, for <em>and</em> to Sammy.</p><p>Sammy leans up and kisses, Dean, <em>again</em>.</p><p>This kiss is warmer, somehow, and still harbors a <em>need</em> at its core. But it is also, <em>scores,</em> different. More understanding and conveying of deep-set love, than any other they have shared in the past.</p><p>“No more lies, De. I can’t take <strong>anymore</strong> lies,” Sam pleads when the kiss breaks again.</p><p>Sam’s fingers trace through Dean’s hair.</p><p>Sam’s skin is hot like a fire against Dean’s.</p><p>And Dean knows that he can’t lie—<em>not while they are intimate like this</em>—but he can’t tell Sam the truth neither.</p><p>“Quit askin’ questions an’ I won’t <strong><em>have</em></strong> to lie,” Dean offers up in a husky whisper, close to Sam’s clavicle.</p><p>Seeking to distract, Sam, Dean, snakes his hands across the sweat-laden exposure of Sam’s waist. Delving and pressing every which direction, until Sam is keening and rutting his boyhood against Dean’s upper-thigh.</p><p>Any and all questions and words irrevocably <em>die</em> on Sam’s red, kiss-swollen pout and Dean lavishes a whole slew of kisses all over Sam’s neck, chest, and face.</p><p>When, Sam, can find his voice again, it’s to <strong>plead</strong> with Dean—<strong><em>again</em></strong>—for what they now, <strong>both</strong>, need like hell.</p><p>“C-Can’t <strong>take</strong> it! De! P-Please! <strong>Fuck</strong>! <em>Please!</em> I need you <em>inside</em> me!”</p><p>Sam and his pure-ecstasy induced whines have Dean leaking at his cock-tip and tittering up his spine with <em>anticipation</em>.</p><p>Dean has taken his pleasure from <strong>women</strong> but never taken pleasure from a <em>man</em>. Every man has always pinned Dean and taken—<em>just taken</em>—like fucking animals.</p><p>
  <em>(Except that one time with Dad … that <strong>first</strong> time …)</em>
</p><p>Dean has to <strong>learn</strong> how to move … how to <em>do</em> this …</p><p>How to not <em>hurt</em> Sammy like Dean has been repeatedly <strong><em>hurt</em></strong>. He can’t think about how <strong>easy</strong> it could be to tear Sammy up down <em>there</em>, like Dean has been torn up …</p><p>“Fuck … Fuck … <em>Okay, <strong>okay</strong>,</em> Sammy <em>… Shh …</em> Imma take care of it, Kiddo.”</p><p>The word <em>‘Kiddo’ </em>just falls out and it leaves a bad taste in Dean’s mouth. Because Sammy is still <em>his</em> kid. His <em>‘Kiddo,’</em> and this is gonna <strong>change</strong> that.</p><p>This is gonna make Sammy <em>different</em> in ways that Dean can’t describe and <em>yet</em>—Dean still wants Sam <strong>more</strong> than he can argue about wanting <em>‘Innocent-Sammy,’</em> <em>forever</em>.</p><p>Dean lowers his right-hand and gives Sammy a few rough tugs to his sex.</p><p>Sammy tilts back his head and releases further blissed-out whines.</p><p>“God Sammy … <em>look at you</em> … so sensitive.” Dean has to hold back his own <em>primal</em> moans. He could definitely cum just from watching, Sammy, <em>rut and ache,</em> like this.</p><p><em>“Deeeee!”</em> Sammy whines in a loud huff.</p><p>Dean relents, letting go after a few seconds of observation. Lifting his hand, he probes his fingers at Sammy’s flush pout.</p><p>“Open up, Sammy.” Sammy obeys and Dean whispers, “Now, <em>suck.”</em></p><p>This ministration is arousing for Dean—<em>almost ridiculously so</em>—and he has to steel himself so that he doesn’t rut against Sam for some much-needed friction and wind up <em>cumming.</em></p><p>
  <em>“Good boy, Sammy.”</em>
</p><p>Sammy makes an indistinct whine as Dean withdraws his fingers with a <em>‘pop.’ </em></p><p>“Open your legs for me, Sammy,” Dean orders, not waiting for Sammy to comply. Spreading them and pinning them up, himself.</p><p>Dean lowers his hand and uses his drenched fingers to probe at Sam’s <strong>tight</strong>, entrance.</p><p>This unrelenting <em>heat</em> is unimaginable. Like embers on coal. The muggy-heat in the room and all of their foreplay has <strong><em>drenched</em></strong> them both in a thin sheen of sweat. Sammy’s too-long hair is stuck to his forehead, ears, and neck, which makes Sammy look all the more alluring to Dean.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>—Dean thinks<em> (and not for the first time) </em>that maybe Sammy has the same <em>curse</em> that he does.</p><p>This overwhelming ability to entice and bewitch those around him.</p><p>Shake a man to his core with scorched arousal—or in this case, Sam’s own <em>flesh-blood</em>, <strong>brother</strong>.</p><p>Dean pushes a finger up, inside of Sam and Sam clenches his ring of muscles, and the digit barely fits in.</p><p>
  <em>Shit!</em>
</p><p>How exactly is Dean gonna <strong>fit</strong> inside of Sammy?</p><p>His need might not be full-grown yet but it’s still thicker in girth than his index finger and <strong><em>that</em></strong> barely fits!</p><p>Dean’s stomach clenches with self-disgust as he pictures Sammy—<strong><em>his</em></strong><em> Sammy goddamnit! </em>—in pain.</p><p>Part of Dean <em>(a big fucking part)</em> wants this mattress and the carpet underneath this mattress to swallow him up, <em>(like the filth he knows that he fucking is for actually wanting this with ‘too-small-Sammy’)</em> and never allow him to resurface.</p><p>Sammy is too young for this—<em>too little</em>—and Dean never should have agreed to do this.</p><p><em>Never</em>.</p><p>“Relax … or else it <strong>will</strong> hurt, Sammy. If you want me to <em>stop—”</em></p><p>“<strong>Don’t</strong>!” Sammy gets this look in his eye—it startles Dean a bit, because it reminds him of the <em>dangerous</em> sorta look that Dad gets, sometimes.</p><p>And Dean’s heart speeds ten-fold in his chest.</p><p>
  <em>“Sammy—”</em>
</p><p>“I mean it, De! You <strong>can’t</strong> back outta this, now … <em>Please!”</em> The dangerous look wipes clean and Sammy is back to his usual pouty expression he uses when he realizes that he might not get his way, and Dean’s heart can beat a little more normally again. “You always leave me <em>achin,’ </em>De … every damn night … Please … Don’t leave me needin’ <em>tonight</em>, too …”</p><p>The whines are almost like <em>poison</em> to Dean’s emotions and the kind of stir it fans inside of Dean is almost unendurable.</p><p>Why do things <strong>always</strong> gotta be like this for Dean? Why can’t he just be <em>fucking</em> normal?!</p><p>Dean bites back tears and inclines his head to satiate Sammy with a kiss.</p><p>“I <em>won’t</em> leave you achin,’ Sammy. <em>Not tonight,” </em>Dean concedes and works a second finger up inside of Sammy’s tightness.</p><p>Sam is squirming, crooning, and hissing—but most of all, <em>leaking</em>.</p><p>There are little oozes of, <em>pre, </em>dribbling onto Sammy’s pelvis. The slit at his tiny cock-tip is angry-red and Dean knows from experience just how excruciating, <em>full</em>, <strong><em>unrelieved</em></strong><em> balls</em> can be.</p><p>Dean has that same exact ache stemming from his swollen, <strong>tugging</strong> balls, right now.</p><p>Dean starts panting as he works Sammy up, more and more with every second he spends attempting to stretch Sammy around his exploring fingers.</p><p>Dean feels like a piece of <strong>shit</strong> for this, but that can’t be helped … Sammy <em>wants</em> him and Sammy will <strong>never</strong> stop until he gets what he wants.</p><p>And Dean isn’t strong enough to play these games anymore—<em>Dean always seems to lose.</em></p><p>Suddenly, Sam’s fingers are reaching up to tether through Dean’s hair and tugging until their pouts are back together. Meshed and twisting in a fresh tangle of stolen, <em>needy</em> kisses.</p><p>“I c-can’t <strong>take</strong> anymore … you <em>won’t</em> break me! Just please, De! <em>Please!”</em> Sammy wiggles his hips in this enticing manner, that has Dean reeling. Head spinning cartwheels.</p><p>
  <em>Goddamn it all to hell!</em>
</p><p>Tugging his fingers loose, Dean, positions his engorged mushroom-head at Sammy’s rear passage—<em>and pushes home.</em></p><p>The ache Dean experiences is out of this world—<em>and jarring</em>—<em>very, very <strong>jarring</strong>!</em></p><p>Sam fists the sheets and breathes in heavy waves, while he struggles to adjust to the <em>splitting</em> of his entrance.</p><p>Dean worries for Sam through his blurred vision. He barely has the head sunken-in, before he is suddenly yanking himself back out.</p><p>The look in Sam’s eyes is enough to make Dean want to pound into him. It’s this <em>needy</em>, stark thing that threatens to undo Dean from the inside-out, but Dean refuses to be the cause of Sam’s <em>utter destruction.</em></p><p>Reaching under the bed, Dean, pulls out a bottle of whiskey <em>(he keeps it stashed there to take the edge off when he needs it) </em>and right now—<em>Dean goddamn needs it</em>—and so does Sammy if this is gonna continue.</p><p>“Why’d you <em>stop</em>, De?” Sammy is giving him his disappointed—<em>verge of tears</em>—look and Dean crawls back over to Sam and plops at his side.</p><p>If Dad has taught Dean one thing in the three years that he’s been using Dean as <strong>pleasure</strong>—<em>it’s this.</em></p><p>“I ain’t gonna touch you <strong>sober</strong>, Sammy. Okay? I <em>can’t</em> … So, I need you to drink up, as <em>much</em> as you can. It’s gonna <strong>burn</strong> … <em>a lot …</em> but you gotta trust me, Sammy. It’s gonna make this <strong><em>better</em></strong><em> …”</em></p><p>At least Dean hopes to <strong><em>hell</em></strong> that it will. Because the way Sam just looked and <em>felt</em> underneath him … well, Dean, knows what it feels like to be <strong>under</strong> another person—God-in-heaven, he knows what it feels like to <strong><em>tear</em></strong> … and Dean won’t let his Sammy suffer <strong>that</strong> fate, tonight.</p><p>
  <em>Not sober, anyway.</em>
</p><p>Sam sits up and Dean takes note of the <em>hard</em> <em>throb</em> still oozing between Sammy’s taut thighs. It’s enough to make Dean want to climb back on and <strong>take</strong>—<em>Damn the consequences</em>—but he doesn’t.</p><p>He steels himself against it.</p><p>This isn’t how Dean pictured Sammy’s first drink going, but nothing in their lives has <em>ever</em> been normal, so why should it <strong>start</strong> being normal, now?</p><p>Sam eyes the bottle of whiskey, wearily, then shifts his glance back to Dean. “I’m okay, De. You weren’t hurtin’ me. Why do you wanna get me drunk?”</p><p>Of course, Sammy, would ask him <em>why!</em></p><p>
  <em>Always with the questions!</em>
</p><p>Dean unscrews the lid and takes a large chug, first. Needing the warm rush of liquid courage to keep him going.</p><p>“Just <strong>drink</strong> it, Sam. <em>No questions.”</em> Dean extends the bottle and gives Sam a look that he hopes conveys something along the lines of: <em>‘No more questions just fuckin’ do it.’</em></p><p>Sammy crinkles his nose, but does as he is <strong>told</strong>, <em>for once.</em></p><p>Dean watches Sammy take down gulp after gulp. Scrunching up his nose and shaking his head to get the nasty taste to go away.</p><p>When, Sam, has consumed enough for Dean’s nerves to settle and ease-up a bit, the bottle goes back under the bed where it belongs.</p><p>Sam clamors up onto Dean’s lap and full-on <em>kisses</em> him.</p><p>It’s sloppy and need-filled and so many other things that Dean can’t name through this onset of wooziness—but it feels like bliss and love and <em>all</em> conscious thought of how fucked-up wrong this <em>shit</em> is, vanquishes.</p><p>
  <em>Instantly.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Poof</em>
  </strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>Dean sloppily lowers a hand and jerks at Sammy’s tumid hardness, causing Sam to buck and squeal with renewed urgency.</p><p>“M’ not <em>sober,</em> no more … D-Deeeee,” Sammy slurs out with slow, decisive words. “’N now I … wan’ you to … fin-ish wha’ you start-ed.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t respond verbally, but lowers Sammy to the sheets, instead.</p><p>Sammy spreads his legs out of pure instinct this time around. Bending them up at the knees and lowering them to either side on the mattress.</p><p>“Gonna make ya feel <em>good,</em> Sammy-Sam,” Dean hums out after a minute or so of taking in the creamy-pinkness that is Sammy.</p><p>He’s never called Sam <strong><em>that</em></strong> before, but it just sorta slips out and Dean likes the way it sounds on his slow, <em>eased-up tongue.</em></p><p>If there is one thing Dean is grateful to Dad for, it’s the <em>introduction</em> to whiskey. It sure can ease up the mind and muscles of anybody—<em>especially little Sammy.</em></p><p>“Jus’ do it already, Deeee … <em>So … achy …”</em> Sam whines impatiently.</p><p>Dean slicks up his dripping length with spit and positions at Sam’s entrance—<em>again.</em></p><p>This time, Dean, doesn’t ease in slow<em>, (he figures he might as well rip off the band-aid) </em>but shoves in all at once with a potent thrust of his hips.</p><p>Sam shrieks, scrunching up his face and squirms about on their mattress, but doesn’t appear to be in any real bad pain.</p><p>
  <em>(At least none that he can <strong>feel</strong>, anyway.)</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Thankfully</em>
  </strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>Dean dips his head down and kisses Sam with a peck to the lips.</p><p>“How’s tha’ feel, Sammy-Sam? Hm?”</p><p>Dean burns like <strong><em>fire</em></strong> from how badly the desire has built to rut, not just in the now, but since Dean hit puberty. The fire in Dean for Sammy has never died down.</p><p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p><p>Dean’s lied to himself about it—<em>tried to contain it</em>—but never quite gotten it to go the fuck away.</p><p> He steels the urges by twisting his hands into the sheets with tight clenches.</p><p>The smell of <strong>sex</strong> permeates the air from their shared arousal. Whiffs of Sammy are, <em>also,</em> all around Dean. Like Sammy’s essence is trying to <strong>crawl</strong> right up and underneath his skin and <strong><em>live</em></strong> there or something.</p><p>Sam lifts his arms and coils them around Dean’s waist. Holding tight to him, like a <strong>monkey</strong>—<em>like Sam always does</em>—and it’s for comfort and reassurance, because it must <strong>hurt</strong> and Dean knows it, but Sammy would <em>never</em> admit it, aloud.</p><p>Sam’s a <em>‘Winchester</em>,’ through and through.</p><p>So—<em>So Sammy clings to Dean like a damn monkey</em>—and that tells Dean enough.</p><p>Sammy <em>needs</em> slow, loving, caresses.</p><p>Tender, gentle, love-making from <em>here on out.</em></p><p>The push to accommodate the full girth and length of Dean all at once, was too much—<em>even inebriated.</em></p><p>“I got you, Sammy … I got ya …” Dean reassures Sam with tender, pliant kisses that pepper Sam’s lips, neck, and chest.</p><p>Everywhere they can go—<em>Dean places them.</em></p><p>Sam makes little noises in his throat and Dean plants one of his hands on the mattress for leverage, and lowers the other down to slowly, <em>easefully</em>, provide Sammy some much-needed, <em>friction.</em></p><p>Sammy gasps and moans loud enough to send shivers spiraling <em>through</em> Dean’s whole body.</p><p><em>“That feel good? Hm?”</em> Dean teases against Sammy’s skin and gets a little high-pitched half-whine in response.</p><p>Dean waits a few more seconds—<em>then starts to move.</em></p><p>The clench of muscle around Dean’s cock is indescribably good—<strong>better</strong> than the slight pressure from sex with <em>random</em> <em>chicks</em>.</p><p>Dean can finally grasp <strong>why</strong> Dad succumbs so easily whenever Dean climbs on his lap and <em>teases</em>. Understands the kind of effect any sorta provoking or teasing could have on a barely held-together stretch of a man’s <em>(even a man as strong-willed as Dad)</em> self-control.</p><p>Hisses and sighs utter out of Dean. One thing becomes <strong>abundantly</strong> clear to, Dean, immediately.</p><p>
  <em>He ain’t gonna be able to <strong>last</strong>.</em>
</p><p>Despite years of being with soft, sensual chicks and rough, hard men, something about being burrowed, balls-deep in tight little Sammy has Dean close to finishing prematurely.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck!</em>
</p><p>Dean works to beat-off Sammy faster, with the knowledge that this is gonna be <em>over</em> soon. And Sammy reacts to his quickened wrist movements.</p><p>Bucking and keening with high-pitches in his throat.</p><p><em>“C-Can’t …</em> <em>ohgod!”</em> Sammy whines in a practically unintelligible rabble, that has Dean’s balls tightening.</p><p>Sammy is <em>so</em> damn sensitive, like he’s always been, and it don’t take much to get him squirming and close to the mark.</p><p>Dean tightens his back, squeezes his muscles, and muffles Sammy’s cries of sensitivity with a stolen kiss.</p><p>The explosion is white-hot and burns everywhere that Dean has sensation—<em>absolutely</em> <em>every-fucking-where.</em></p><p>Their combined moans permeate the room and Dean bathes in deep ecstasy and even more profound shame, than he’s ever known before.</p><p>The waves continue for longer than Dean can count and time seems meaningless in the thick of this bliss and awakening.</p><p>Fevered globs of seed spill outta Sammy, showering both of their pelvises, and Sammy’s belly.</p><p>Dean feels the stickiness between them as he collapses, exhausted, on top of Sam.</p><p>It’s a long time spent while they both catch their breath, where Dean’s alcohol-riddled mind struggles to process what just happened—what <strong><em>he</em></strong> just did.</p><p>Dean’s immediate concern in the foggy aftermath, is Sammy’s comfort.</p><p>“You <em>okay</em>, Sammy?” Dean whispers from Sammy’s righthand side. Dean doesn’t even remember plopping down next to Sammy, but he must have at some point.</p><p>Sammy inches in closer, so that their skin is touching, and tucks his legs through Dean’s and twines an arm around Dean’s waist.</p><p><em>“Yea-sh, De.” </em>Sammy has this dizzied look that is dreamy and distant, because of the whiskey.</p><p>This innocent-but-sensual look has Dean wanting to reach out and touch Sammy again—<em>so he does.</em></p><p>Lowering a hand, Dean, caresses Sammy’s waist. Mapping a trail that leads down between the <em>distinct-cut</em> <em>‘v’</em> of Sammy’s pelvis, and flaccid hot-red exposure of that seed-drenched little rod.</p><p>Sammy squeaks and <strong>jumps</strong> against Dean’s solid form. The whines he lets out, go straight to Dean’s need. Causing the spent thing to lurch, down between his set thighs.</p><p>“You <em>sensitive</em>, Sammy-Sam?” Dean teases, while still giving long drawn-out flourishes of his wrist. Up and down and back again, until Sammy is writhing and blushing at Dean’s hip.</p><p><em>“D-Deeeeee,”</em> Sammy’s eyes roll back and he spends, almost immediately. Twitching and squeaking as another explosion of seed spills, this time coating Dean’s belly, too.</p><p>The whitish liquid smearing between their flush bellies.</p><p><em>“Shit.”</em> Dean has never seen <strong>anyone</strong> this sensitive before. But Dean has only ever used his hand <em>twice</em> on, Sammy, before tonight. And he likes to pretend those times <strong>never</strong> happened.</p><p>There is no <strong>telling</strong> how Dean is <strong><em>ever</em></strong> gonna be okay with what transpired, tonight.</p><p><em>‘Denial,’</em> Dean answers his own internal question. <em>‘Denial is the only way that you will ever even remotely be able to cope.’</em></p><p>Lots of pills, booze, sex with chicks, and <em>heaps upon</em> <em>heaps</em> of fucking, <strong><em>denial</em></strong>.</p><p>Sammy pants and shakes for a good solid minute, while Dean eases off of Sammy's clearly <em>deprived</em> cock.</p><p>Dean snakes his hand along Sam’s smooth side and kisses the top of his head, near his temple. Dean tries not to think about how brotherly that affection is—and how unbrotherly what they just did was.</p><p>Dean is trying to let the alcohol guide him off towards sleep, but even with his recent orgasm, Dean, is sleepy but not yet able to sleep.</p><p>As the high <strong>subsides</strong>, Dean, listens for the soft little hitch of Sammy’s breath sounds. Every circular motion of Dean’s restless, fingers has another tiny hitch-noise, coming outta Sam.</p><p>Dean moves his hand, cups Sammy’s sweaty cheek, and forces Sam to look him in the eye.</p><p>Sam does, with loose little flutters of his drink-heavy eyelids.</p><p>Sammy is clearly gonna be a <em>lightweight</em> when it comes to drinking and Dean mentally stores that thought away as a reminder not to force Sammy to indulge in <em>too much</em> whiskey in the future.</p><p>“Have I <strong>hurt</strong> you, Sammy?” Dean has to force the words out around a stony-lump that has formed in his throat. “You’d <em>tell</em> me if I had?” It shouldn’t be a question—Sammy should tell Dean if he is in any pain …</p><p>But this is <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean comes to the sudden realization that, Sammy, might <em>lie</em> to spare Dean’s feelings. And it is that knowledge, alone, that is currently keeping him awake.</p><p>Sammy works his jaw and stares at Dean for a beat. In a way, Sammy, is almost looking right through Dean and that is unnerving.</p><p>Then, Sammy, mutters, “’M f-fine, De. Jus’ fine … dun worry … De … <em>Stay wiff me …”</em> Sam is suddenly maneuvering a hand into Dean’s short hair, fisting it.</p><p>Despite the reassurance, Dean’s stomach, still twists up inside.</p><p>“I <strong>ain’t</strong> gonna leave you, Sammy.”</p><p><em>And he</em> <em>won’t</em>.</p><p>Sam is naked and drunk, all because of <strong>Dean</strong>. All because Dean couldn’t keep himself <em>under</em> <em>control</em> … and Dean <em>needs</em> to know that Sammy isn’t gonna wake up in pain, tomorrow.</p><p>So, with a determined sigh, Dean, untangles himself from Sam in order to sit up. He scoots across the mattress, digs around in the nightstand, pulls out his painkillers, and ekes one out for Sammy.</p><p>Putting the bottle back, Dean, reaches for Sam’s half-empty water-bottle from earlier and hands the pill and water to Sammy.</p><p>“Take this. I <em>ain’t</em> gonna spend the night <em>worryin’</em> for you, Sam. I just ain’t,” Dean instructs. Trying to keep his thoughts from <strong>wrenching</strong> in his brain.</p><p>Sammy gives him a strange sorta look, but does as Dean tells him to. Takes the pill, swallows it down, and hands Dean back the bottle, before he lies back down.</p><p>“Come ba-ck, De … <em>Wanna …</em> <em>hold y-you …”</em> Long, drawn-out words fall outta Sam’s kiss-swollen pout.</p><p>Dean complies, and before anymore fucked-up thoughts can hurdle Dean’s way—he finally drifts off to sleep.</p><p>Content and drained with the covers kicked off <em>(to stave off this goddamned heat!)</em> and only Sammy’s naked body to keep him grounded as he shuffles into<em> ‘Dreamland,’ </em>Dean, finally claims that elusive sleep he’s chasing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. part 6; & hold with denial.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i> Sam is unconscious, Dean's mental state worsens, and Dad's on his way.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 6; &amp; hold with denial.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    
    <em>Denial is a wall</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>in which love hides</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>behind.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xviii. aftermath &amp; drowning.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Every dream Dean has is shrouded in shadows and guilt—<em>so much fucking guilt</em>—and it takes hours of clawing and shifting in the tangle of bedclothes to yank himself out of it.</p><p>Dean realizes <em>(when his eyes crack open) </em>that it isn’t his strength of <strong>will</strong> that releases him from the shadow of sleep—<em>but the ring of his motel room phone.</em></p><p>
  <em>One ring. </em>
</p><p>Then, a beat of silence.</p><p>
  <em>Another ring.</em>
</p><p><strong>Dad</strong>.</p><p>With a rising heartbeat, Dean, extends his arm and lifts the receiver from the base. Pressing it in at his ear.</p><p>“Dad?” Dean rasps out; voice thick and cracked. Still riddled with sleep.</p><p>“I’m gonna be <em>sooner</em> than I told you. I’ll be pickin’ you boys up in <em>two days’</em> time.” Dad’s voice is weathered and harsh, like <strong>usual</strong>, but the tightness to it, has Dean immediately on edge.</p><p>This is how Dad sounds when it’s been <em>‘too long,’</em> and he <em>‘needs,’ </em>Dean.</p><p>It has been well over a <strong>month</strong> since Dean last laid eyes on Dad and that <em>(up until this point)</em> has been something for Dean to <strong><em>celebrate</em></strong>.</p><p>Which, even Dean can see the irony in, now. Considering there was a time <em>(not all that long ago)</em> when Dean would practically <em>beg</em> Dad to come around more often—<em>when Dean would have done <strong>anything</strong> for just an extra graze or glimmer of Dad’s sand-rough touch</em>—<em>and now …</em></p><p>Now, Dean, <strong>shudders</strong> at the thought of Dad’s hands on his flesh and all-underneath his clothes. Suffers under the weight of Dad and Dad’s ‘<em>adult</em>-<em>need’</em> that once intrigued Dean straight through to his center.</p><p>Dean’s hand that holds the receiver starts to quiver and he struggles to keep himself somewhat-calm in demeanor.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” he manages to say without his voice breaking or dropping.</p><p>Dean listens to Dad breathe on the other end of the line and waits for Dad to elaborate—<em>to say more.</em></p><p>“Somethin’<em> wrong</em>, Boy?” Dad’s tone turns innocuous and Dean knows he is in trouble …</p><p>What has given him away, <strong>this</strong> time? Did he pause too long between Dad’s words and <em>his</em> response? Did his voice waver more than it should <em>despite</em> being roused from sleep for this?</p><p>There’s no way of knowing for absolute.</p><p>Dean is <strong><em>fucked</em></strong>.</p><p>“No sir. Ain’t <em>nothin’</em> the matter.” Dean tries for what he <em>hopes to God</em> is a quick, vague response.</p><p>Dad makes a <strong>noise</strong>. Something between a grunt and snort.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>“You been doin,’ <em>right,</em> by, Sammy, Boy?”</p><p>And <strong>there</strong> it is.</p><p><em>Fuck! </em><strong>Fuck</strong>!<em> <strong>Damn</strong>!</em></p><p>“Yes, Sir. Sammy is doin’ fine. He’s sleepin just now, Dad, but he is doin’ <em>alright.”</em></p><p>Another acknowledgement via grunt.</p><p>Dean is trying to read what kind of interaction he is currently having with, Dad, but it is debatable—<em>even at the best of times.</em></p><p>Dad is like a damn mystery, wrapped-up in another mystery and straight-shot into the sun. It’s impossible to know anything about and even less possible to try and retrieve.</p><p>Dean senses one thing for damn certain … He is well-<strong><em>beyond,</em></strong> fucked when Dad comes.</p><p>“I gotta go. We’ll discuss this <em>later,</em> Dean.” To anyone else those words would seem to be an entirely <strong>normal</strong> exchange between a father and his son.</p><p>Dean fucking <strong><em>knows</em></strong> better.</p><p>The way Dad says it with that harsh, <em>edged</em> way about it.</p><p>Dean is gonna be in for it, <em>come Sunday.</em></p><p>The line goes dead and Dean sits there with the ringtone in his ear for a good hard minute of trembling, tingling—<em>fear.</em></p><p>His skin prickles with the knowledge that it’s gonna be real painful <em>(more than it already is from last night’s beatdown)</em> and unbearably abused.</p><p>Dad has taken to inflicting excruciatingly <em>painful</em> punishments on Dean over the past couple years. And not just with a belt, like Dad used to before.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>The belt does come into play <em>(sometimes) </em>but there have been fists and the toes-of-boots used for punishment, too. Once, Dad, even singed him with a <em>fire-poker.</em></p><p>The round-ended scar left as a <strong>result</strong> still lingers. Etched permanently into Dean’s waist just below the ribcage, as a constant reminder of how <em>bad</em> things can get for Dean if he fucks shit up.</p><p>And last night—<em>Dean fucked shit to pieces.</em></p><p>Dean replaces the receiver on the base with a low-level <em>‘click,’</em> and lifts his tremoring hands to squeeze at his eyes.</p><p> <em>This is real goddamn bad!</em></p><p>Thoughts of how badly, Dean, fucked up act as a reminder that Sammy is <em>here</em>! <em>Beside him. </em>Unmoving and tangled in the mess of sheets and coverings.</p><p>Sam never even <em>reacted</em> to the phone ringing, which isn’t all that unusual on the surface<em>, (since Sam could sleep through literally anything) </em>but what makes it especially unusual and alarming, is that Sammy didn’t attempt to shift and reach out for Dean when he pulled away to answer.</p><p>Sammy always fusses whenever Dean slips from bed <em>(even in his sleep) </em>but Sammy has stayed <em>‘Un-Sammy-like,’ </em>still.</p><p>Which gives Dean more than pause—<em>but panic, too.</em></p><p>Inching the covers off of, Sam, Dean, rolls him over onto his back <em>(off of his side)</em> and feels for breath.</p><p>Sam is breathing, but it’s slow and slight.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck!</em>
</p><p>“Sammy? <em>Wake up, Sammy!” </em>Dean shakes him, desperately. Tears already rimming his eyes.</p><p>Sam wobbles under Dean’s persuasive ministrations and lets out a very slight groan. Though still refuses to wake. Sam, instead turns over and away from Dean’s incessant shakes.</p><p>Dean stops trying and squeezes his eyes between his thumb and index. Trying without much strength—<em>to keep himself together.</em></p><p>Dean mixes painkillers and booze all the time—but also knows it isn’t a <strong><em>wise</em></strong> decision. And in Sammy’s case <em>(being a lightweight and still a preteen)</em> it’s akin to a signing a <em>death-warrant.</em></p><p>How could he have been such a fucking <strong>idiot</strong>?</p><p>When it comes to, <em>his</em> Sammy, Dean’s judgment, is irrevocably flawed.</p><p>All, Dean, thought about last night was how to make Sammy numb—How to clear away Sammy’s potential pain and ability to suffer.</p><p><em>‘I’m such a fucking worthless piece of shit!’ </em>Dean thinks to himself, while feeling around for a pulse.</p><p>It’s thready and erratic, <em>but</em> <em>holding.</em></p><p>Dean can’t risk taking Sammy to the ER. Then Dad will know how <strong>badly</strong> Dean really fucked-up and Dean can’t handle that.</p><p>The shame—<em>the guilt</em>—the punishment Dad would surely dish-out for him.</p><p>It would be ten-times worse than anything Dean can imagine.</p><p>Dad has been getting very, very creative as of late—and Dean doesn’t want to <em>(even remotely) </em>give Dad a clear-cut reason to get even more-so.</p><p>Dean surveys the naked visage of Sammy while he sleeps. The mugginess in the room has worsened with the rising sun and Sam’s sun-tanned skin is layered in sweat. Dean can’t tell if Sam is sweating from the heat <em>(or his body fighting the pills and booze) </em>but whatever way he looks at it—<em>it can’t be a good thing.</em></p><p>In the interim, Dean, takes in light bruises that now makes up Sam’s waist, hips, and thighs—and has to wrench violently away.</p><p>Crawling <em>back and</em> <strong><em>off</em></strong> the bed in a split-second <em>knee-jerk</em> reaction.</p><p>Through sudden and panicky tears, Dean, springs into the bathroom—like a shot—and manages to somehow careen over the toilet, before he is violently ill. Losing whatever contents are still in his stomach.</p><p>Dean loses <em>space and time</em> on the bathroom tile.</p><p>At some point he must have positioned his back, ramrod-straight, against the sticky-hot, wall.</p><p>Dean, and this panic is the worst it has ever been.</p><p>There are tears, sobs, spasms, shakes—<em>the whole nine yards of split-edge death.</em></p><p>What kind of sick-<em>twist</em> is he becoming?</p><p>
  <em>Touching, kissing, corrupting, Sammy? </em>
</p><p><strong><em>His</em></strong> goddamn Sammy?</p><p>Last night was well-beyond a simple mistake—it was even well-beyond these bubbling, unnatural emotions Dean’s carried for Sammy all these years.</p><p>Love or no love—<em>last night was wrong.</em></p><p>Dean was intoxicated for some of it—and the waves of need, of touch and sex and passionate needful kisses was heightened and the pleasure was remarkable. But nothing in this world is even remotely worth driving Sammy to suffer.</p><p>Absolutely, <em>fucking</em>, nothing!</p><p>Dean sits here for a long time and <em>lives</em> in this guilt—<em>in this self-disgust.</em></p><p>Dean left bruises on Sammy—<em>actual bruises</em>—and stuffed Sammy so full of intoxicants that Dean can’t even rouse him, now.</p><p>Dean realizes that he could have killed Sammy with his carelessness—<em>Sammy still might die from last night</em>—and Dean is to blame.</p><p>He is the piece of <em>shit</em> that gave in—<em>even though he knew better</em>—Dean’s <em>always</em> known better.</p><p>When, Dean, comes back out of this rapid onset of anxiety, enough to register where he is—Dean goes and stands at the sink.</p><p>Pulls the pocketknife, <em>(always kept there for emergencies)</em> off the edge and scrapes the blade across his already marked-up and <strong>bare</strong> waist, with a <em>hiss</em>.</p><p>Watches the blood dribble in scarlet trails down along his side in taint and hurt.</p><p>Even the iron-infused make-up of Dean’s blood is fucking <em>poison</em>.</p><p>It feels like slow-beamed poison every second the substance runs and streams through his veins—<em>every second Dean is alive.</em></p><p>Dad made sure that Dean experiences this immeasurable level of self-loathing—<em>every second of every day.</em></p><p>Dean glares at his reflection and drops the blood-wet blade in the sink with a <em>‘clatter,’</em> then heads back into the main motel room, without a second-glance back.</p><p>Sammy needs Dean right now—needs and <strong><em>deserves</em></strong> to wake with some semblance of tender comfort.</p><p>Dean can’t think about the alternative … That Sam may never wake …</p><p>If Sammy <em>dies</em>—</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>No</em>
  </strong>
  <em>!</em>
</p><p>Dean can’t even picture a life without <em>his</em> Sammy.</p><p>No future—<em>no present—</em>just everlasting dark.</p><p>Nothing connects if Sammy isn’t at his hip.</p><p>Even though Sammy is difficult sometimes. Even though he makes Dean want to tear his hair from his skelp with frustration … Sammy is Dean’s <em>only</em> consecutive light.</p><p>Only pride and joy in all this <em>godforsaken</em> shithole of a world.</p><p>Sammy <em>belongs</em> to him. Even if that sorta thing … <em>last night’s</em> sorta thing can’t happen again, that doesn’t change the raw-cut shape of <strong>things</strong>.</p><p>Sammy is Dean’s <em>sole</em> responsibility—and the <strong>only</strong> being Dean is still capable of loving with all his <strong>soul</strong>.</p><p>Dean returns to the mattress, still buck-naked and spoons Sammy. The sweltering heat that exudes from Sammy is immediately causing sweat to build and cake on Dean, too.</p><p>Dean doesn’t budge though—doesn’t even give a fuck that he is overwhelmed by this bruiting heat.</p><p>This is all Dean’s fault. He should have known better than to give Sammy whiskey and a strong painkiller all in the span of a half-hour.</p><p>Time lapses, as Dean clings to Sammy the way Sammy usually clings to him—like his life simply depends on it.</p><p>And it does.</p><p>Sammy is his whole freaking life—and that’s it.</p><p>And the longer time ticks by and Sammy stays still and unconscious the more panicky Dean starts to feel.</p><p>“Please, Sammy …” Dean runs one of his hands up and down the span of Sammy’s belly straight on up to his chest.</p><p>Trying to rouse him … trying to soothe him …</p><p>This is all Dean can do. Hope, pray (to the god and angels who never listen) that Sammy is gonna wake up.</p><p>That Sammy is gonna be okay.</p><p>Dean listens to the sound of Sammy’s breathing and watches the rise and fall of Sammy’s chest over the curve of Sammy’s shoulder.</p><p>One of the times his hand goes just a tad lower, brushing Sammy’s pelvis and goes rigid when he bumps the swell of Sammy’s need, accidently.</p><p>Dean freezes—solid.</p><p>The accidental touch spurns this damn heat that ferments the ache in Dean’s own lower region.</p><p>‘Fuck!’ Dean thinks to himself and tightens his exploring hand into a fist.</p><p>Sam is having <em>‘good’</em> dreams or else he is enjoying the friction from Dean’s hand more than he rightly should—either way Dean feels Sammy shift a little, and gasp from the unexpected touch just, <em>there</em>.</p><p><em>“D-De …”</em> the mumble is barely audible, but Dean picks up on it.</p><p>This <em>strained</em> little sound.</p><p>Of course, Sam, is dreaming about <em>him</em>.</p><p><em>About</em> <strong><em>Dean.</em></strong></p><p>The wrongness of this moment is not lost on Dean, although Dean wishes he could <em>bury</em> it—just like he is trying to bury last night’s <strong>stolen</strong> pleasures in a corner of his brain that will <strong>never</strong> see the light of day.</p><p>Denial is the only way Dean is gonna be able to get past <strong><em>any</em></strong> of this. Any of the atrocities that he has committed.</p><p>“Wake up, Sammy …” Dean coos into Sam’s ear with a tad bit of hope in his strained and quivering vocals.</p><p>
  <em>No such luck.</em>
</p><p>Sammy doesn’t even shift, <em>just sighs</em>, still unconscious.</p><p>Dean doesn’t <strong>want</strong> to do this. Not at all—<em>not even remotely.</em></p><p>His mind is screaming from so much as a <strong><em>thought</em></strong> about carrying this out—<em>but it’s for Sammy.</em></p><p>He fucking <strong><em>has</em></strong> to.</p><p>With slow, precise movements, Dean, rubs and tweaks the tiny protrusion of Sam’s need.</p><p>
  <em>Rubs. Jerks. Squeezes.</em>
</p><p>Sammy gasps and moans. At first, they’re <em>subtle</em> little noises that travel straight to Dean’s own cock. To Dean’s greatest shame, Sam, <em>arouses </em>him while like this, just like he did last night.</p><p>Even asleep—<em>even unconsciously</em>—Sam is able to trigger this ever-brimming fire in Dean that is capable of doing him in.</p><p>He does his best to ignore the stiffness that presents like a hard<em>, thick rod</em> pressed against Sam’s spine, by taking in shallow, <em>shaky</em> breaths and releasing them in little hisses.</p><p>Dean pushes the <em>bad thoughts</em> aside and concentrates on Sammy. Sammy <strong>needs</strong> to wake up—<em>and hopefully this will wake him up.</em></p><p>Sammy’s breathing escalates. Hips gyrate toward each full sweep of Dean’s caresses. And slowly, but surely Sam is arching back into Dean with puppy-like keens while streams of seed pump out.</p><p>Spattering down on their sweat-soaked sheets, Dean’s cupped-fingers, and Sammy’s own torso—but <em>(to Dean’s dismay) </em>Sammy settles afterward.</p><p>He <em>still</em> doesn’t wake.</p><p>Sam moans and sighs with little flutters of his eyelids for a couple seconds while coming down from this high—<em>but that is all.</em></p><p>
  <em>Goddamnit!</em>
</p><p>Dean releases Sam’s deflating <em>throb</em> of need—and wipes his fingers on the sheets.</p><p>And is now back to square one. With absolutely no inkling of how to rouse Sam from this <em>endless</em> sleep.</p><p>Should he leave Sam be?</p><p>Dean can’t help but despise what he just did to Sam.</p><p>
  <em>Jacking him off in his sleep …? </em>
</p><p>What a desperate and inexcusable act!</p><p>It’s bad enough that Dean … did what he <strong><em>did</em></strong> with Sam last night, but even worse to do so while Sam is unconscious!</p><p>“What do I do, Sammy, huh? What am I gonna do?” Dean’s eyes are brimming with un-spilled tears and Dean fights to keep them in.</p><p>The blood from Dean’s self-inflicted wound is dried now but still stings like a bitch. Although it is enough to distract Dean’s mind a smidge from this new wave of fresh panic, <strong><em>and</em></strong> the formed arousal that spurned from <em>touching</em> Sammy.</p><p>What if Sam really <strong>can’t</strong> wake back up?</p><p>What if he dies here <em>… in Dean’s arms?</em></p><p>Dean fists his hand into a ball and shuts his eyes against the prospect of a <em>dead</em> Sammy.</p><p>This is a nightmare of the worst kind for Dean.</p><p>Dean always knew that if he stayed close to Sam—if he continued to raise him like he was his <em>own</em> <strong><em>kid</em></strong>—that something like <strong><em>this</em></strong> would wind up happening.</p><p>Dean had just hoped that he would be strong enough to hold off for a couple more <em>years</em> at least. Strong enough to keep from doing the <strong>unthinkable</strong> with his baby brother.</p><p>“Please Sammy … please … God … <em>don’t die on me, Man … </em>You <strong>can’t</strong> die on me …” Dean starts to openly plead because this <em>physically hurts</em>. Deep down in the pit of Dean’s soul—<em>this, <strong>hurts</strong></em>.</p><p>Dean and emotions have never really quite mixed. And these sorts of <em>feelings</em>—<strong><em>emotions</em></strong>—are more than he can tolerate. Dad says that <strong>tears</strong> are a sign of weakness. Feeling too <em>deeply</em> is another blatant sign of weakness, too, and right now, all Dean <strong><em>can</em></strong> do is <em>feel</em>.</p><p>And he feels <em>everything</em>.</p><p>The impact of what he’s gone and <strong>done</strong>. The force of his guilt about allowing Sammy to <em>seduce</em> him into this … <em>this perverse act.</em> And worst of all, Dean, can feel the emotional havoc that Sam kicked up inside of his soul last night, by all-but verifying <em>(in very obvious terms)</em> that—<em>despite Dean’s best efforts to the contrary</em>—he <em>is</em> gay.</p><p>Dean has failed Sam in so <strong>many</strong> inconceivable ways.</p><p>Too many to even <em>count</em>.</p><p>Tucking the bulk of his arm around Sam, Dean, starts to shut down. All he can do is lie here—<em>and wait this out.</em></p><p>So—<em>Dean does.</em></p><p>Eventually—<em>despite fighting against it</em>—Dean drifts off and back to sleep.</p><p>Sam still clutched-tight in Dean’s hold—clad to Dean’s bare front—<em>spoon-style.</em></p><p>The hours dwindle, like years, with Dean caught up in nightmares featuring Dad and Sammy, concurrently.</p><p>Somewhere in the midst of sins and pain—Dean feels an ocean of heat. It drenches him and <strong>attacks</strong> him—and the heat rouses him from sleep.</p><p>At first, Dean, doesn’t know <em>where</em> this wetness is coming from. Not through the broad swirl of haze and fever.</p><p>Then, Dean, sleepily runs a hand down the span of Sam’s belly and realizes there is wetness surrounding them both.</p><p>
  <em>Shit!</em>
</p><p>Dean is upright with Sam sprawled on his back in a second-flat.</p><p>Sam <em>pissed</em> the bed.</p><p>Dean can’t remember the last time he’s woken to wet sheets and an apologetic Sam—but it’s been at least since Sam was potty-training, at least.</p><p>Since Sam was <strong>four</strong>? <strong>Five</strong> at <em>most?</em></p><p>Sam and his monkey-clinging limbs would usually drench Dean more-so than the sheets beneath them, so they’d both have to shower, in the aftermath. All while Sam would give him puppy-eyes and apologize over and over.</p><p>Dean would always reassure a heavily-<em>embarrassed</em> Sam with touches and kisses to the forehead that were innocent and sweet—<em>and promise that he wasn’t at all mad</em>—because how <strong>could</strong> he be?</p><p>After all, Sam, never had a caring, <em>soft</em> mother to tuck him in and teach him <strong>not</strong> to wet the bed—not like Dean had. All Sam had was a <em>‘learn-as-he-went,’</em> big brother to teach him these things.</p><p>It wasn’t Sam’s fault that his body took a little longer than <em>most</em> to acclimate to nighttime sleep.</p><p>And neither is this.</p><p>This—<em>right here</em>—is Dean’s fucking fault.</p><p>Sammy is so messed-up in the head right now that he can’t even <em>wake</em> <strong><em>up</em></strong> … let alone rouse to use the bathroom if he needs to go.</p><p>Sam is a little more awake, though, this time around.</p><p>Dean shakes him a little, trying to rouse him, and Sammy does rouse—<em>a little.</em></p><p>“Sammy … You’ve had an <strong><em>accident</em></strong>, Sammy …” Dean tries to wake him up more than this tiny little bit that he’s managed, but it’s still overall <em>useless</em>.</p><p>Sam yawns and blinks up at Dean through incoherent eyes and tries to raise an arm, but it flops uselessly back down with a thud.</p><p>Dean’s belly clenches and heart flutters.</p><p>“Shit … okay, Kiddo. Okay … <em>I gotcha,”</em> Dean says when Sam <em>(seeming to realize to some degree or other that he’s wet)</em> moans and flails in place, utterly helplessly.</p><p>Dean <em>(still half-asleep himself)</em> slides his arms straight underneath Sam’s back and legs and somehow manages to stand up.</p><p>Legs buckling, Dean, resituates a floppy, somewhat mumble-ly, Sammy, in his arms, until Sam’s head flops down against Dean’s chest.</p><p>Sam didn’t just go a <em>little</em>—<em>he went a lot.</em> The whole middle of the bed is <strong>soaked</strong>.</p><p>Well—this is gonna be a freaking <em>nightmare</em>.</p><p>This shitty motel doesn’t have a bathtub, only a two-bit shower that doesn’t even offer cold water, despite the hundred-degree daily temperatures.</p><p>
  <em>(It’s Florida. cold water doesn’t exist when the temperature is high and Dean found that out the hard way on more than one occasion.)</em>
</p><p>Dean sighs and carries Sam to the shower. Places him down on the tile, propped against the wall, and flits on the water.</p><p>Once it’s warm—<em>but not piping hot</em>—Dean hoists Sammy back up and plants him down under the stream.</p><p>Sam groans and sways a little under the sudden assault of wetness from above—<em>everywhere all at once</em>—and Dean crouches down, soap in hand. Starts lathering Sammy up with soap.</p><p>“Come on, Sammy … I need ya to try an’ wake <em>up</em> for me, Kiddo,” Dean urges, while sliding a hand across Sam’s tummy, chest, and shoulders.</p><p>Sam grunts and blinks a few times with half-lidded eyes, while the endless shower stream sprays all-down Sammy’s neck and back.</p><p><em>“Sowwy … De …”</em> Sammy half-sighs and shivers.</p><p>Is Sammy actually <em>apologizing</em> right now?</p><p>Dean feels a prickly wave sear underneath his skin.</p><p>“Don’t <em>apologize</em>, Sammy. S’not your fault.” Dean uses his touch as reassurance, because it’s all he really knows <strong><em>how</em></strong> to do. And it seems to relax Sam <em>(at least a little bit)</em> because he lets out little half-sighs and half-keens that echo and fill this tiny bathroom.</p><p>It takes a long time for Dean to properly cleanse Sammy’s skin as well as his own of the acrid stench of piss—<em>but he manages it.</em></p><p>Dean’s been cleaning up after Sammy <em>all</em> his life.</p><p>Cleaning piss is no different than wiping up blood and patching hunting wounds of Dad’s.</p><p>Now that Dad comes to Dean more often, he’s been exposed to quite a degree more of Dad’s wounds. When he’s wounded, Dad, is at his most desperate for <em>stress relief.</em></p><p>When all is said and done, Sammy, is a little more coherent than he was when Dean first brought him in for a shower.</p><p> Dean helps Sam into a <em>‘too-big’</em> shirt of Dean’s <em>(Sam insisted on wearing something of Dean’s) </em>and put him back to bed in Dad’s bed.</p><p>Sammy goes right back to sleep and Dean sets about dressing himself and stripping the sheets from their shared bed.</p><p>Using bleach and gloves, Dean, scrubs the stain on the mattress. Not wanting to have to explain any of this to the <em>less-than-friendly</em>, motel clerk, back at the office.</p><p>Dean decides to also use some of their laundry cash to wash the yellow-stained <em>(previously white)</em> sheets. After a few-second glance in Sammy’s direction Dean rubs Sammy’s spine, and whispers, “I’ll be back in a bit, Sammy,” before heading out to the couple-decade-old machines, inside the laundry room.</p><p>Once, Dean, is alone—<em>idly watching the washing machine, with his legs folded under him on the cold square-tiles</em>—he can really think about everything that’s happened.</p><p>Starting with last night.</p><p>Their argument, followed up by that <em>‘more-than-reckless’</em> beatdown Dean initiated on himself <em>(every movement today is accompanied with feeling like a sharp, steel knife is trying to sear through his ribs and spine) </em>and ending with the stupidest series of decisions Dean has ever made.</p><p>
  <em>What the fuck was he thinking?</em>
</p><p><em>‘I wasn’t,’ </em>he answers his own stupid question, while rubbing and squeezing at his eyes.</p><p>Dad is gonna kill him and that is gonna be that.</p><p>Dad is gonna find out <em>(somehow)</em> and fucking <em>skin</em> <em>him <strong>alive</strong>.</em></p><p>Dean keeps rehashing all of this in his wrecked-up head until he feels even guiltier than he already did when he woke, this morning.</p><p>When the bedclothes finish in the dryer, Dean, pulls them out and heads back into their motel room.</p><p>Sammy isn’t sleeping anymore <em>(to Dean’s surprise)</em> he is, instead, sitting up in Dad’s bed with a baffled expression and sleep-worn eyes.</p><p>Depositing the freshly-cleaned sheets on their bed, Dean, heads over and plops down next to Sammy with a flood of relief.</p><p>“You’re awake!” Dean half-sobs, half-sighs in his elation.</p><p>For the moment, Sammy, being alive and not dead is the <strong><em>only</em></strong> thing he can think about … not the fact that he shouldn’t be kissing and hugging him <em>(it’s going to give Sammy the wrong idea about how things need to be from here on out)</em> but to <strong>hell</strong> with it!</p><p>Dean plants a loving kiss to Sammy’s skelp, while half-tugging Sammy onto his lap in the interim.</p><p>“You <em>left</em> <em>…”</em> Sammy utters, glancing down at his fingers, picking at the skin only half -here and half-elsewhere, Dean, <strong>surmises</strong>.</p><p>“Had to wash our sheets.”</p><p>Sammy’s mouth draws into a grimace and face goes dark and reddish-pink.</p><p>“I … I wet the bed … <em>didn’t I?”</em> Sammy squirms on Dean’s lap and refuses to look Dean in the eye.</p><p>Dean wants to punch something—because <strong><em>he</em></strong> did this <em>to</em> Sammy. Sammy should be blaming <strong>Dean</strong>—<em>not himself for Chrissakes!</em></p><p>Dean lifts both hands, fitting Sammy’s jaw in-between them in order to force Sam to meet his gaze.</p><p>“Hey. Listen to me, Kiddo. None of this is your fault, okay?” Dean wants to make a point that drives home in Sam. “None of it. You, understand?”</p><p>Sam has this half-distant fogginess in his eyes, but Dean needs Sam to know that this is Dean’s fuck-up.</p><p>This <strong>whole</strong> mess.</p><p>It’s all Dean’s—<em>not Sam’s.</em></p><p>Sam could be dead right now … because of Dean. Because of the carelessness Dean showed last night.</p><p>“’M <em>not</em> a … kid … any-more …” Sam mumbles and sighs. Dragging out his tiny, pink-tongue to wet his cracked lips.</p><p>Lowering his hands back into his lap, Dean, sighs. “No, yer not little, Sam. But I drugged you up, good. An’ I shouldn’t have gone and done that, alright? So, this …” Dean gestures to the other bed, “is my damn mess, it ain’t yours, Sammy-Sam.”</p><p>That new nickname from last night just sorta falls out and Dean wants to cringe—<em>but doesn’t.</em></p><p>Dean just wants to work through this as painlessly as possible and get Sammy back on the proper track.</p><p>Somewhere, Dean, is gonna find the proper track and steer them onto it.</p><p>Because this constant tug of war between them—<em>these damned emotions that just sunk everything</em>—it’s all too much for Dean to keep tussling with.</p><p>Another sigh.</p><p>“I don’t regret … last … night,” Sammy somehow manages to get out the words, around a yawn and slur or two.</p><p>Dean tightens his fist into the sheets near his thigh and has to take in a few deep breaths to keep himself grounded in the present.</p><p>“Let’s not talk about that right now. You need your rest.” Last nights wanton indiscretions have haunted Dean all morning—<em>even his nightmares</em>—and he can’t think about what sorta pain Sammy is probably in right now, because of Dean’s filthy actions.</p><p>Sammy’s face falls.</p><p>“You … regret <em>m-me …” </em>Sam whispers in a meek, doe-like tone.</p><p>
  <em>Goddamn it all! </em>
</p><p>This is the <strong>last</strong> thing Dean needs riding <em>shotgun</em> in his conscience right now!</p><p>“Don’t, Sam. Not right now,” Dean tries to make his voice sound edged and solid—but it breaks with a little crackle midway through.</p><p>
  <em>Freakin’ puberty! And emotions!</em>
</p><p>Sam takes this opportunity to scoot himself up Dean’s thighs until their crotches touch. Sam is commando under Dean’s <em>‘Zeppelin’</em> T-shirt and the teensy poke of Sam’s boyhood can be felt through Dean’s skintight blue-jeans.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p><em>“Sammy …” </em>Dean warns, trying <em>not</em> to react to Sam.</p><p>Sam’s still not in his right mind—<em>still barely keeping awake</em>—and Dean can’t stoop any lower … Can’t fall back into this perverted thing they have, going.</p><p>“So … wha’ … De …?” Sam sighs out, with those pink, perfect—<em>freakin’ kissable</em>—lips of his just hovering inches from Dean’s. “Gonna pre-tend … last nigh’ did-n’ happen …? Tha’ you … didn’ ta-ke  my … vir-ginity?”</p><p>Shit … Sammy can barely <strong>talk</strong> right now, but <strong>damn</strong> if he isn’t forcing Dean to <strong><em>feel</em></strong> this!</p><p>All these things Dean is currently trying <em>not</em> to have to feel!</p><p> To feel the <strong><em>magnitude</em></strong> of last night in his marrow—<em>in his veins!</em></p><p>One small part of Dean was hoping against all reality that Sam might be too drugged and drunk to remember last night.</p><p>That they might <strong><em>never</em></strong> have to have this conversation at all …</p><p>Now, Dean, knows how Dad felt that first time he touched him and Dean used it against him, afterward.</p><p><em>“S-Stop it,</em> S-Sam …” Dean hisses as Sam drives his hips forward and forces Dean to experience the projection of Sam’s arousal—still small yet and all-but singing-out for a <em>rough</em> touch.</p><p>Dean <em>needs</em> to do something with his hands, right-goddamn-now! And so, he death-clutches, Sammy’s, waist.</p><p>“I <em>ne-ed </em>you, D-De …”</p><p> Sammy has these goddamn <em>pouty</em> eyes again—they vex at Dean’s underbelly and rake claws down the soft tissue.</p><p>
  <em>Holy-Freakin’-Crap!</em>
</p><p>In one swift motion, Dean, grabs for Sam’s cheeks and crushes their mouths together. It’s angry and harsh and so <em>many</em> things all rolled into one, but Dean <strong>needs</strong> to do away with some of this damned tension.</p><p>It’s making his stomach do flip-flops like he’s some kinda freakin’ <em>girl</em> or something. Sam has beaten him down <strong><em>past</em></strong> his steep edge. Cause when Sammy is hurting or sick, Dean, has never been able to stand it.</p><p>Sammy—<em>like this</em>.</p><p>Weak and vulnerable to boot—<em>is Dean’s ultimate kryptonite.</em></p><p><em>“Shuddup, Sammy!”</em> Dean rages when the kiss breaks for air.</p><p>Sam is unphased by Dean’s outburst. His lithe hips start to buck and hump at Dean’s tightening crotch.</p><p>
  <em>Motherfucker!</em>
</p><p>Every muscle inside of Dean tenses anew and his now swollen-red lips, fall open with a pant, as Dean begins to tremble.</p><p>This is all, too, damn much!</p><p>
  <em>Too! Much!</em>
</p><p>Dean maneuvers them so that Sam’s back meets the bed and his little legs fall open. Dean slatted neatly between.</p><p>“What d’ya want, Sam? You wanna cum? S’that it?” Dean can hardly talk—<em>his throat is all tight and raspy.</em></p><p>Sam’s pupils are blown with lust and he makes little squeaks in his throat. Still rutting and humping like <strong>mad</strong> against Dean’s own throb of <em>unquenchable</em>-need.</p><p><em>“W-Wanna … mm … cum …”</em> Sam pants out between urgent little ruts. The rough denim is making a scratching sound in the air for every <strong>grind</strong> against skin Sam steals.</p><p>“Then <strong><em>earn</em></strong> it,” Dean hears himself answer—not quite believing his own ability to take control of Sam’s <strong>darkest</strong> whims like this.</p><p>Dean’s in his own swarm of untold lust right now.</p><p>So high with it that watching Sammy work his hips is making Dean overtly hot. And is a lot like one of those most depraved of fantasies that <strong><em>live</em></strong> in Dean’s head.</p><p><em>“H-How?”</em> Sam squeaks and quivers.</p><p>Dean reaches out to knead at Sammy’s flush skin, sheltered underneath the body-warmed t-shirt.</p><p>Every grind has apparently made Sammy all the more sensitive to touch, because he is keening and shaking and squealing with every <em>single</em> one.</p><p> “Keep workin’ those <em>hips</em> until you <strong>do</strong>,” Dean orders.</p><p>Sam writhes underneath Dean’s seeking hands and Sam redoubles his efforts. Panting and sucking in little heaves of air, until everything feels tight and hot between them.</p><p>This room’s mugginess escalates and Dean senses his own orgasm is gonna be worked outta him by force—<em>by Sammy more-like</em>—in the next few seconds, whether Dean likes it or not.</p><p>And right now—<em>at least in this practical second</em>—Dean <strong><em>does</em></strong> like it.</p><p>Dean likes it <em>so much t</em>hat it <strong><em>aches</em></strong>.</p><p>Because Sammy has forced every other <em>(sane)</em> thought outta Dean’s mind right now.</p><p>All that is still in Dean is this <strong>unmistakable</strong> lust—<em>and a supreme desire to get off.</em></p><p>Dean is bursting in his jeans before he can even brace himself to weather it.</p><p>
  <em>Oh fuck!</em>
</p><p>Sammy twines his fingers in Dean’s short hair. Tugs Dean’s face down to crush their lips back together, and stills his hips—<em>thighs quivering in place</em>—as he, too, cums.</p><p>Dean <strong>grunts</strong> as torrid heat slams with a force into the Dean’s denim crotch. Hot splashes spatter onto the fabric from both <em>inside and outside</em> simultaneously and it sends Dean into a second, <em>(far-more intense) </em>cum.</p><p>The jolts of electricity course like wildfire everywhere, all-underneath Dean’s flesh.</p><p>And Dean finds himself clinging to Sammy and tremoring in his own undisguisable surrender to this fucked-up perversion and all that comes with it.</p><p>So much pleasure that Dean thinks it might actually <em>blind</em> him.</p><p>This sure as fuck will haunt him, endlessly, when it’s all over.</p><p>And it is—<em>over.</em></p><p>Sam gasps for air in the aftermath of this twined-up thing and Dean experiences the force of his own limbs prepared to give out from underneath him.</p><p>Maybe it’s seconds or minutes, but Dean loses time.</p><p>When he comes back into his head, Sammy, is sprawled next to him—fast asleep—with Dean’s t-shirt rode up his thighs and globs of seed peppering his pelvis and upper, inner-thighs.</p><p>Dean sits up and feels the sloshy-squelch of seed inside his jeans and underwear and wants to throw-up.</p><p>What the fuck is the <em>matter</em> with him?</p><p>Why can’t he, fucking, <strong>fight</strong> this?</p><p>Whatever this thing is between Sam and him, it is so far past the mark that Dean doesn’t know what to even <strong>think</strong> about it.</p><p>There is no defending any of this—<em>no denying it, neither.</em></p><p>It just <strong><em>is</em></strong>—<em>and it’s just sick.</em></p><p>Dean scoots off the bed and uses wet-wipes to clean Sammy’s thighs of their combined mess. Then, lifts and tucks Sam back underneath the covers.</p><p>Physically, Sam, will be just fine—of <em>that</em> Dean is now certain.</p><p>But mentally?</p><p>Yeah. That’s a <strong><em>whole</em></strong> ‘nother ball park, as far as Dean is concerned.</p><p>And Dean can’t cope with it.</p><p>Dad is gonna see right through whatever lies Dean can think up to tell him, and God help him when Dad does, because it ain’t gonna be pretty.</p><p>Nothing ever fucking is for Dean.</p><p>Dean changes out of his clothes, wipes himself clean of the disgusting proof of his and Sam’s indiscretions, and changes into fresh clothes.</p><p>Dean needs to get fucking wasted and he needs to fuck—to forget most of all.</p><p>Anything to take off this scary-edge that is living inside of him.</p><p>Dean has to get Sammy—<em>and last night, and</em> <strong><em>just fucking now!</em></strong> –out of his head.</p><p>He wants it <strong>gone</strong>!</p><p>Preferably erased but knowing that triggering amnesia isn’t <em>strictly</em> possible, Dean, will settle for the next best thing—a random chick and some cheap booze to go with her.</p><p>That is the only way he can shut these past twenty-four hours out of his heart and his mind—and hopefully move forward without cracking.</p><p>After checking the salt-lines, and grabbing his room key, Colt and blade, Dean, heads out into the night.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xix. lies will out.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the muffle and burst of sound and sweepy-tang of smell and taste, is the searing hot touch of Dean.</p><p>Sam tries to fight this God-like fog of miscreance—<em>but it’s like trying to lift ten-ton bricks with his undersize arms.</em></p><p><strong>Impossible</strong>.</p><p> Thoughts are like oceans that rush in tidal waves too fast for Sam to grasp onto and <em>keep</em>.</p><p>Every time he tries, they just wash through his fingers like water and dissipate into <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>But the one thing—<em>the only thing</em>—Sam knows is hot touch and spoken words that gather and fold in on him.</p><p>And this rising heat between his thighs—<em>so hot and burning</em>—so <em>achy</em> <em>and</em> <strong>constant</strong>.</p><p>Sam <strong>needs</strong> satiation—<em>and he pleads and begs and yearns until Dean breaks and gives.</em></p><p>Because … because … Dean is <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>And Dean <strong><em>always</em></strong> gives.</p><p>And god … <em>the sensation …</em></p><p>It explodes and encompasses and Sam is <strong>overwhelmed</strong> by it all.</p><p>By the lips against lips and the tongues against tongues and just … everything—<em>everywhere.</em></p><p>This pent-up fire that squeezes and thrills and spreads—and just … <strong><em>is</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>Until it’s <strong>not</strong>.</p><p>Sam finds sleep and again and this sleep feels <strong>endless</strong> <em>(like the sleep before) </em>but it’s not like the sleep where he woke up smelly and wet after dreaming of swimming in the deepest ocean <em>(that may or may not have started out as a bathtub?)</em> and feeling the familiar ache of the need to <strong>piss</strong>.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>No</em>
  </strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>This sleep is different and <strong>lesser</strong> and less <strong><em>necessary</em></strong>.</p><p>But his limbs have nothing to cling to—<em>and he’s too tired to cling anyway.</em></p><p>So, Sam just <strong>sleeps</strong>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sam wakes up to the sound of silence—<em>and a dark room.</em></p><p>In his sleep, Sam, had kicked off the covers and curled into a ball.</p><p>Half on his side, half on his stomach.</p><p>Sam can feel every pound in his head and rubs at it with a low-scale whine.</p><p>So, this is what it feels like to have a <em>hangover?</em></p><p>Like death and just wanting to sleep and <strong>never</strong> get back up?</p><p>
  <em>Ugh.</em>
</p><p>Sam blinks a few times and sits upright, while still clutching at his aching scalp and rubbing up and down, repeatedly.</p><p>Sam barely has his rear-end touching the mattress, when a sharp pain shoots through the tissue—<em>and he doubles over with a wince.</em></p><p>It doesn’t hurt <strong>all</strong> that much, but Sam wasn’t <strong><em>expecting</em></strong> the hurt. This strange, abused-flesh <em>feeling</em> is completely new territory for Sam.</p><p>With a thick swallow, Sam, lowers himself onto his ass a little more gingerly, while staring around confusedly for Dean.</p><p>Where <strong><em>is</em></strong> he, anyhow?</p><p>Sam searches everywhere but his big brother is nowhere to be found and that <strong>kickstarts</strong> Sam’s heart—<em>and not in a good way.</em></p><p>“<strong>Shit</strong> …” Sam mutters to himself and tries to stand up.</p><p>His legs feel weak and jelly-like, and don’t support him when he goes to stand.</p><p>Sam crashes to the carpet with a grunt and a whimper.</p><p>
  <em>Holy fuck that whiskey was strong …</em>
</p><p><em>‘and the pill …’</em> his mind helpfully reminds him.</p><p>Dean’s painkillers are prescription strength <em>‘Oxycodone.’</em> Sam has read the label a great deal of times, while puzzling out what to do about Dean.</p><p>Sam wonders how the hell Dean functions while taking that shit. It literally has Sam incoherent and <em>child-like</em> from just a <strong><em>single</em></strong> dosage.</p><p>And Sam knows for a fucking <strong>fact</strong> that Dean mixes that shit with alcohol almost <em>daily</em>.</p><p>The memories in Sam’s head are fuzzy as hell <em>(yet another symptom of the pill and booze)</em> and he is trying to decipher them all, rather unsuccessfully.</p><p>It’s like Dean is here and <strong>nowhere</strong> in the midst of a bunch of still-pictures and things.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Sam hoists himself up off the floor and plops back down on the edge of the mattress.</p><p>Unsteadily, his eyes transfix on the mattress across the way <em>(the one he fell asleep on last night)</em> and realizes that the sheets and covers are stripped off. A mound of sheets rest on top with the bed unmade.</p><p>Sam looks to the clock on their nightstand, next. It reads: <em>3:00 AM.</em></p><p>Where the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> is Dean?</p><p>Rubbing his eyes to focus them, Sam, goes over what he <strong>can</strong> remember, again.</p><p>Lots and lots of <em>fogginess</em>.</p><p>Somewhere in the blur of it all, Sam, vaguely remembers Dean showering him. He can remember the heat of the nasty water here that runs <em>warm</em> right outta the tap, raining down on his skin.</p><p>And <strong>Dean</strong> … Sam remembers Dean using his hands to lather him up. The memory causes Sam to tingle, <em>bodily</em>, and shiver.</p><p><em>‘I wet the bed, didn’t I?’ </em>Sam hears that sentence run through his mind and sees a flash of Dean somewhere in the midst of it.</p><p>Sam feels his cheeks fill with red-heat and squirms a little from the <strong>embarrassing</strong> recollection.</p><p>Then, Sam, remembers being <em>underneath</em> Dean—remembers rutting and grinding on him for <strong>friction</strong>. This new memory fills Sam with deep-seeded <em>lust</em> and he reaches down and <strong>squeezes</strong> his stiffy through the oversize shirt he’s wearing.</p><p>Glancing down, Sam, realizes he is in one of <em>Dean’s</em> shirts—and he’s completely <strong>naked</strong> underneath it, to boot!</p><p><em>‘You regret me …’</em> Another spoken phrase returns to Sam—and he tries to puzzle out the answer in Dean’s eyes that comes with it.</p><p>Regret is reflected in those eyes—<em>harsh and true to the bone.</em></p><p>Sam releases his hard-on and braces his hands at his thighs, digging into the flesh with his nails to ground himself.</p><p>How pathetic and weak he was last night. Hitting on Dean? <strong><em>Seducing</em></strong> Dean?</p><p>It was all so <em>stupid</em> and <strong>risky</strong> of him …</p><p>Sam <em>let</em> himself be vulnerable with Dean and this is what it got him. Drunk and high on painkillers—<em>and abandoned.</em></p><p>Fucking abandoned like <strong>worthless</strong> trash.</p><p>Sam digs his nails in hard enough to break skin and scar in moon-shapes.</p><p>Tears well in his eyes and he swipes them away. Another memory comes to mind. The time he shared with Dean last night is less foggy, but <em>still</em> difficult to manifest.</p><p><strong>One</strong> part stands out.</p><p>
  <em>One in particular.</em>
</p><p>Dean forcing him to <em>promise</em> not to be with another man. Like it was some <strong><em>wrong</em></strong> thing—like <strong><em>he</em></strong> was wrong for this love.</p><p>Sam knows that loving Dean <em>is</em> wrong—<em>or at the very least, different</em>—but what he feels with Dean <em>(what Sam has always felt with Dean)</em> is indescribable.</p><p>So <em>that</em> ugly word—that ugly <strong><em>thing</em></strong> that Dean said to him—it makes him feel queasy.</p><p>
  <em>‘I won’t have you bein’ a faggot, Sammy. You <strong>hear</strong> me?’</em>
</p><p>Sam closes his eyes and breathes through it.</p><p>Is that why he has woken up alone? Because Dean thinks he’s a …</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>Or is it because Dean is <strong>repulsed</strong> by him? By what he <strong><em>wants</em></strong> from Dean?</p><p>It’s all so twisted-up now, and Sam sniffles through a few unwelcome <em>(falling)</em> tears.</p><p>Sam has to stand up now—<em>he doesn’t have a choice</em>—and he makes it to the toilet. Just in time to <em>lose</em> whatever happens to be in his mostly-empty stomach.</p><p>Sam wobbles when he can finally bring himself to stand back up and flush the sick away.</p><p>And Sam wishes <em>(now more than ever)</em> that Dean was here, so that he could apologize and beg Dean to stay.</p><p>But—<em>if Sam is being honest with himself</em>—he would have left, too.</p><p>Sam goes and settles back down on the mattress, his stomach now gurgling with ache from a combination of hunger and sick-pains.</p><p>It’s <strong><em>uncomfortable</em></strong> and Sam’s mouth is dry and thirsty.</p><p>With quite a bit of effort, Sam, stands back up and gets a bottle of coke out of the mini-fridge in the corner.</p><p>He drinks to rinse away the nasty taste leftover from being sick and leans back against the headboard.</p><p>Sam ignores the sting from his <strong><em>sore</em></strong> muscles and the emotional ones from his memories as he ponders what to do.</p><p>He doesn’t have <strong>long</strong> to wonder, before Dean crashes into the room like a tidal wave of crazy and startles Sam out of his bleak thoughts.</p><p>
  <em>“De?!”</em>
</p><p>Dean half-stumbles, <em>half-crashes</em> down on the mattress, right next to Sam.</p><p>Sam immediately crinkles his nose at the <em>stench</em>.</p><p>Dean reeks of perfume, whiskey, weed and cigarettes—<em>not a particularly pleasant combination</em>—and is clearly intoxicated.</p><p>“Hey, Kiddo. <strong>Scooch,</strong> will-ya?”</p><p>Dean kicks off his shoes and sheds his leather jacket, discarding it nearby. Then, Dean, shoves underneath the covers and Sam <em>(bewildered) </em>scoots over like Dean asked.</p><p>“Dean where have you been?” Sam feels a heaviness in his stomach and can no longer tell if it’s from being <em>sick</em>—or from a bad feeling <strong>deep</strong> inside.</p><p><em>“Out,”</em> Dean says casual-like, through a smile.</p><p>This casual, devil-may-care attitude is unfamiliar to Sam.</p><p>Sure, Dean, has been <em>unpredictable</em> these past few months, but Dean is ridiculously <em>‘cool-tempered’</em> right now<em>, (sorta like he used to be years ago)</em> considering—<em>what Sam can remember of</em>—last night.</p><p>To say Sam is <strong>unnerved</strong> would be an understatement.</p><p>“I figured. But, De? Are you … are you <strong>mad</strong> at me?” Sam figures it’s best to get this <strong>all</strong> over with, while Dean is in a somewhat <em>agreeable</em> mood.</p><p>Dean ruffles Sam’s hair causing the already bed-tousled strands to stick up on end.</p><p>“’Course not, <em>Sammy-Sam.</em> Why d’you think I’d be mad at ya, huh?” Dean laughs it off like it’s the most <strong>absurd</strong> assumption around.</p><p>Sam shoots Dean an even more perplexed look.</p><p>“You were <strong>gone</strong> …”</p><p>Dean smirks.</p><p>“Yeah. What can I say, Sammy? Hm? I needed some fresh air. An’ a <em>chick</em> to take the edge off. Seems to have done the trick.”</p><p> Dean winks and elbows Sam in his ribs.</p><p>Sam feels this lingering dread boil up in him tighter, almost past the breaking point.</p><p><em>‘So, <strong>this</strong> is how it’s going to be then?’ </em>Sam thinks to himself.</p><p>Dean is gonna just head out and find a <em>‘chick,’</em> to bury his shame in—and come back drunk and chocked <strong>full</strong> of denial?</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Great.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Sam rolls his eyes, miserably.</p><p>“Whatever, Dean.”</p><p>Sam is still worn out from the effects of the pill and booze. His system feels like it’s been through the wringer and back.</p><p>“Man. I’m <strong>tired</strong>,” Dean sighs out in this blissed-out tone and Sam turns his back on Dean.</p><p>Sam can’t even <em>look</em> at Dean right now. And he doesn’t want to listen to Dean brag about his <em>‘chick-whores,’</em> and how <em>‘tired,’ ‘doin’ them’</em> has left him, neither.</p><p>Neither of them speaks again, as Dean flicks off the bedside light.</p><p>Sam listens for a long time in the dark, until Dean is snoring and the <em>drowsiness</em> creeps in.</p><p>Sam doesn’t want to think about the fact that Dean was off with a girl, tonight, after <strong><em>their</em></strong> night spent together …</p><p>It makes Sam feel <strong>gross</strong>—like another of Dean’s <em>nameless</em> fucks that doesn’t <em>matter</em>.</p><p> Without even realizing it, Sam, digs his nails into his palms, hard enough to draw blood.</p><p>It’s the only thing he <strong>can</strong> do to temper these pushed-down emotions. Deep enough to <em>(eventually)</em> drift off to sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere between the crossed and blurred lines and all the shit Dean’s been through, Dean, was able to shut himself down.</p><p>With, Sammy, that sorta thing is real hard.</p><p>Because Sammy has these needy, emotional bursts that come up outta nowhere and strike. And leave Dean a frenzy of mess and feelings. Scrabbling about <em>(like some kinda damn invalid) </em>trying to gather his bearings as though a freight train ripped him apart.</p><p>And this time, Dean, didn’t want that.</p><p>This time, Dean, needed to find another way to handle this Sammy thing …</p><p>After lots of drinking, kissing, and blurry sex, it is much easier to detach himself from memories of <em>glorious</em>, <strong>needful</strong> sex with sweet, innocent, Sammy.</p><p>It is the only thing that rids Dean of even a <strong>portion</strong> of this overwhelming, <em>‘freight-train-freakin’-nailed-me’</em> unending, guilt.</p><p>At least enough for Dean to <em>(somewhat normal-like)</em> function.</p><p>Sam tries to talk to him—<em>multiple times</em>—and each one of those times, Dean, redirects the conversation, or shuts it down completely.</p><p>There is <strong><em>not</em></strong> gonna be anymore <em>‘real talk’ </em>between them.</p><p>Because once with Sammy pinned under his bodyweight was bad enough—Dean can’t <strong><em>ever</em></strong> do that again.</p><p>Absolutely not.</p><p>
  <em>Ever.</em>
</p><p>Two days of avoiding Sammy has Sammy in a sour mood, but Dean has noticed that Sammy isn’t <em>limping</em> so much anymore <em>(Dean can’t even think about the fact that he drove his brother to <strong>limp</strong> in the first place!) </em>and though Sam’s mood is sour, Sam is <strong>alive</strong> so that’s something.</p><p>Dean has been worrying <em>(internally)</em> about Dad and what he is gonna do—<em>and say</em>—when he comes for them.</p><p>And well, when Dad did swing by to pick them back up and take them the hell outta this <em>‘heat-box’</em> from the bowels of hell, Dad is icily quiet.</p><p>It’s this stony look Dad gets on his face that has Dean’s stomach in knots and his skin bristling with warnings about the impending danger.</p><p>Dad pissed is never a good thing.</p><p>Absolutely <strong><em>never</em></strong>.</p><p>And Dean spent the entire ride straight through Georgia and into Tennessee, thinking about how to appease Dad.</p><p>To make matters worse, Sam, is still a ‘Sulking-Sally’ in the backseat which makes Dad’s mood even pricklier than when he picked them up.</p><p>Between Dad giving Sammy a piece of his mind and the long drive—<em>Dean is well aware that he is fucking screwed.</em></p><p>No point in <strong>believing</strong> otherwise.</p><p>What really gives it away is what happens when Sam is fast asleep at Dean’s hip, tonight.</p><p>Dean can’t sleep, because he is waiting for Dad to give the signal. It’s usual a quiet incline of Dad’s head after he’s deep in the drink, or a little wick of a smile that has Dean’s skin crawl from underneath.</p><p>Tonight, Dad, forgoes all subtle signals and all-but jerks Dean outta bed and out into the Impala backseat.</p><p>That is how Dean knows that he’s fucked—and not in a good way.</p><p>Dean scrambles to turn around on the leather backseat as Dad situates himself and slams the door.</p><p><em>“C’mere, Boy!” </em>Dad grabs at Dean and yanks him onto his lap.</p><p>Dean is forced to straddle him, unceremoniously with his knees digging into the leather.</p><p>Dean is still rather sore from his beatdown three nights ago—but he figures there is no point in healin’ up, since Dad is gonna add to his body’s already <em>tangent</em> misery.</p><p>
  <em>“Dad I—”</em>
</p><p>Dad forces theirs mouths together, effectively silencing whatever Dean was gonna say. And there is a low keen muffled by the coarseness of Dad’s movements that has Dean squirm in place.</p><p>When Dad comes back up for air, Dean, swallows and blinks a few times for grounding. His heart in his throat and his nerves frayed to shit—hands wantonly trembling.</p><p>“You ain’t touchin’ Sammy before bed no more, I see,” Dad observes, and Dean knows this is less a question and more of a test.</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>“He’s too <em>old</em> for it, Dad. Close to puberty … Don’t wanna rile him up …” It’s a half-truth and Dean knows it won’t fly—but he gives it his all, just the same.</p><p>Dad makes a rumble-like noise in his throat that sets Dean’s teeth on edge.</p><p>The next thing Dean knows, Dad’s hand, is down between Dean’s thighs. Latched on to the base of his boyhood through the denim.</p><p>Dean squirms and pants.</p><p>“You never cared ‘bout Sammy an’ his gettin’ the <strong>wrong</strong> idea before. You wanna try that explanation again, <em>Boy?” </em></p><p>Wincing in the face of Dad and his all-knowing stare, Dean, knows he has to tell the truth.</p><p>It’s all he <em>can</em> do.</p><p>“I went an’ got myself <em>beat-up</em>. Check underneath my clothes. I still got the bruises to show for it,” Dean explains. “An’ Sam’s mad at me, is all. He was <strong>mouthin’</strong> off an’ I needed to blow off some steam … so I … I antagonized some big dudes behind a bar.”</p><p>This seems to <strong>amuse</strong>, Dad.</p><p>Dad tugs up the ends of Dean’s shirt and surveys the damage for himself. There are purplish bruises clear as day on Dean’s skin. The dull-light from the parking lot streetlights illuminate Dean’s marked-up flesh.</p><p>With a click of his tongue, Dad, drops the hem of Dean’s shirt. Allows it to fall back into place, then meets Dean’s greenish-dark eyes.</p><p>“Pathetic. Ya should have been able to drop ‘em, before they ever got a punch in.”</p><p>Dad shakes his head in disappointment.</p><p>“You been slackin’ in yer trainin’?”</p><p>Dean bows his head and shame spreads everywhere. The last thing Dean needs is for Dad to think he’s weak—but as usual—Sammy and his well-being comes first.</p><p>
  <em>Way before Dean’s <strong>pride</strong>.</em>
</p><p>“Jus’ a little …” Dean whispers and Dad latches onto Dean’s waist and has him shoved with his back into the leather upholstery before Dean can even grunt.</p><p>“I oughta <strong><em>belt</em></strong> you, Boy,” Dad mutters and Dean allows his thighs to splay open, presenting the bulge developing in his crotch, where Dad was pawing him, moments ago.</p><p>Dean sees an opportunity to get out of a beating and he takes it.</p><p>“You wanna <strong><em>belt</em></strong> me? Or <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> me, Dad?” Dean coaxes. Using his sultry bedroom eyes. Forcing his hands to still on Dad’s cheeks.</p><p>Dean tilts up his chin and steals a kiss from Dad’s hungry, firm lips. The pinkish-swell of Dean’s own pout helping to lure Dad in.</p><p>This sorta thing has been going on between them for long enough that Dean can <strong>read</strong> Dad. He can read the sort of <em>need</em> that lingers in Dad at any given moment. Whether it’s lust, or a need for aggression—<em>Dean can tell.</em></p><p>Right now, it’s fifty-fifty—<em>both</em>.</p><p>Dad could <em>maim</em>—<em>or fuck.</em></p><p>Dean wants to persuade the <strong>latter</strong>—so he is giving this his <strong><em>best</em></strong> seductive try. Moving his hips up to <strong>grind</strong> against Dad’s.</p><p>
  <em>Heat against heat.</em>
</p><p>Dean’s crotch throbs with the proof his urgency and it makes him ill to know that he gets it up—<em>every time</em>—that Dad touches him. No matter how repulsed he is on the inside—no matter how guilt-ridden—<em>Dean <strong>always</strong> cums.</em></p><p>Always steeps with arousal and ruts into every single one of Dad’s touches like an oversexed whore.</p><p>Dad fists Dean’s hair and tugs gruffly at the ends. “Boy,” Dad warns with this deathly-silt in his tone.</p><p>Dean drops his hands to Dad’s chest and kneads the tight flesh through his shirt.</p><p>“It’s been a <em>while,</em> again … you must <strong>ache</strong> for me, Dad …” Dean dares to breathe out with baited breath.</p><p>This is it—<em>Dean’s last play.</em></p><p>Dad will either take the bait—or turn this on its head and Dean won’t be able to sit right for a week.</p><p>Either way, Dean, just took a <strong>hefty</strong> gamble.</p><p>Dean searches Dad’s hard-edged eyes. Takes in the blackness there and notices how the pupils blow and lust takes root. Then, Dad, is biting at Dean’s pout. Swapping spit and clashing teeth—<em>while breath is lost between them.</em></p><p>And Dean knows—<em>he’s won.</em></p><p>For what it’s <strong>worth</strong>.</p><p>The less of two evils is coming for him.</p><p>Dean shuts off his mind—shuts off the nag in his head that screams <em>‘Faggot’</em> at him—<em>and just gives in.</em></p><p>Their clothes strip away, little by little, until their skin is against each other’s skin.</p><p>And Dad finds purchase in Dean’s ass—while spewing hate into his ear that sticks and drags like little seeds of fire inside Dean until it further decimates his already <em>damaged</em> self-image.</p><p>And time <strong><em>ceases</em></strong> to exist.</p><p>Dad paints his insides with hot, ropes of seed and Dean lays with him afterward, staring up at the <strong>Impala</strong> roof until he feels numb and gross.</p><p>Until his bones no longer feel like they belong to this body. And like if he envisions it hard enough, that he might just be able to disintegrate to <strong>dust</strong>—<em>and blow away on tonight’s Tennessee wind.</em></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. part 7; to have what we have.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Summer avoidance, and Sammy breaking Dean's will.<br/>Fights, mental breakdowns, blood, and making up.<br/>Set over a couple days.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i> I have been rather slow to update lately, and I am so sorry for that, guys! I have been out of sorts lately, so I do apologize for the delay! I still have plenty of ideas for these two and have a general direction of where this is heading, so stay tuned! There are lots of interesting things yet to come! ;] I added a bonus fanvid I made at the end, as an extra little treat! Enjoy, dears! </i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 7; to have what we have.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>There are some thoughts</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>you can’t avoid</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>and some feelings you</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>can’t deny.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xx. heat upset.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>This Summer turns out <strong><em>exactly</em></strong> like Sam knew it was going to be.</p><p>Like, Sheer-fucking-misery, meshed together with an <strong>abundance</strong> of sweltering heat that followed wherever they went.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have to avoid Sam for Sam to know he is in denial—<em>Dean just is.</em></p><p>Dean went back to chasing <em>‘chicks,’ </em>every chance he could, sometimes more than <strong><em>one</em></strong> per town.</p><p>Always returning to whatever <strong>rundown</strong> crap-motel they were staying in at the time, reeking of booze, some combination of smoke or other, and feminine <em>beauty</em> products.</p><p>The worst stench of all <em>(poorly masked by all those other stenches)</em> was the one of <strong>sex</strong>.</p><p>It’s been like Sam <em>never</em> poured out his whole damn heart to Dean in the <em>first</em> damn place—and he might as well <strong>not</strong> have for all the <em>good</em> it’s gone an’ done him.</p><p>Every confession Sam made to Dean that night has come back to bite at him—<strong><em>hard</em></strong>—in the ass.</p><p>Because at least when Sam was suffering in silence, Dean, was <strong><em>still</em></strong> touching him. Even if it <strong>was</strong> just underneath the body-warmed fabric of Sam’s nightclothes.</p><p>Now, Dean, doesn’t touch him.</p><p><strong>Period</strong>.</p><p>It’s worse than that time when Sam was dumped-off at Uncle Bobby’s. At least back then, Sam, was able to talk Dean back into touching him.</p><p>Now, Sam, can’t even get Dean to stay in a room long enough to have any <em>‘real talk,’</em> regarding Dean taking his virginity, before Dean is making some sorta hasty excuse to high-tail it outta the motel and disappear for <strong><em>hours</em></strong> on end.</p><p>The last time Sam attempted it, was back in July.</p><p>Dean had shut down, made some lame-ass excuse and booked it. Then, spent the fourth off with some random bimbo, while Sam was left to sulk alone in their motel room in Texas.</p><p>All because Sam tried to bring up this brand-new <em>‘no touching,’ </em>rule that appeared outta nowhere back in June.</p><p>Sam feels like he’s a goddamned pariah again—like Dean would rather be with <em>anyone</em> but him.</p><p>Hell. Dean took his whole damn <strong><em>virginity</em></strong> and now it’s like Dean can’t stand to look at him, <em>now</em>.</p><p>Like he’s just this <strong>gross</strong> thing … and Sam <strong><em>hates</em></strong> it.</p><p>And that self-hate goes right on along with what Dean said to Sam <strong>that</strong> night—<em>right before it happened.</em></p><p>How Sam’s not allowed to be a <em>‘Faggot,’</em> basically.</p><p>Which really shouldn’t have <strong>stung</strong> as badly as it did—<em>but it’s stuck with Sam.</em></p><p>Of everything that happened <em>that</em> night, it’s what has stuck with him <strong>most</strong>. Gone and left the <em>deepest</em> impression.</p><p>Because it is the <strong>only</strong> chunk of explanation for Dean’s behavior that Sam has <em>(other than extensive denial)</em> and it has quickly devoured most of Sam’s hope these past months.</p><p>Dean doesn’t appear to have noticed <em>(at all)</em> but Sam has been less and less able to eat. He finds a lot of what does pass his lips, just comes back up on him.</p><p>Then there are the <strong>nervous</strong> habits.</p><p>Sam has made permeant, very <strong>deep</strong> scars on his upper-thighs and center-palms—and chewed the skin off his bottom lip too many times to count.</p><p>The taste of iron is almost a constant in Sam’s mouth.</p><p>He feels squirrely all the time—<em>and irritable.</em></p><p>Sam has ridden Dad’s nerves more than once these past months, too, <em>(whenever Dad is actually around that is)</em>.</p><p>Dean has thrown Sam more than a couple looks of commonplace annoyance whenever Dad gets pissed at Sam for his mouth.</p><p>Those annoyed looks are one of the few reactions Sam <strong><em>can</em></strong> pull outta Dean, these days, and it sucks.</p><p>The love that <em>used</em> to flow so freely like loose syrup has completely dried up.</p><p>Now, all Sam is apparently worthy of is irritated glances and avoidance.</p><p>At this point, Sam, wonders if he were to slit his wrists and bleed out in the bathtub, if Dean would even care—<em>or miss him.</em></p><p>There was a time when Sam would have answered immediately with a <em>‘yes, of course he would,’</em> but those days have gone and passed.</p><p>Dean isn’t the <strong>light</strong> he used to be.</p><p>And Sam <strong><em>knows</em></strong> it.</p><p>Sam lays in bed each night <em>(sometimes alone, sometimes with Dean beside him but seemingly miles away)</em> and fights off the urge to claw his own <em>skin</em> down to the bone.</p><p>Because, Dean, says things that <strong>conflict</strong>.</p><p>And Sam <em>never</em> knows the truth.</p><p>Dean kissed Sam like he hung the damn <em>moon and stars</em>, then turned around and shut Sam out—<em>entirely.</em></p><p>How <strong>exactly</strong> does Dean expect him to <em>live</em> like this?</p><p>Like he’s nothing more than a one-time prize to be won and lost, like one of those dollar goldfish at the fair.</p><p>That is how all this feels for Sam.</p><p>Every time that Dean rolls in and spouts off about some random <em>chick</em> he just got laid with.</p><p>Girls are like inanimate <strong>objects</strong> to Dean—so why should <em>Sam</em> be any different?</p><p>Another way Dean has found to avoid Sam—<em>spending time on hunts with Dad.</em></p><p>Dean’s spent a good chunk of this Summer helping out Dad. Sometimes for days on end while leaving Sam back in their motel, completely alone.</p><p>This is also the <em>first</em> Summer Dad has <em>ever</em> deemed Dean old enough to start going out hunting as Dad’s <em>second</em>.</p><p>Which left Sam to practice his fighting techniques, alone—which was the most hard-hitting of all.</p><p>It’s how Dean has gotten away with not having to touch Sam. Sparring is the <strong><em>only</em></strong> physical contact they have now.</p><p>
  <em>Painful contact.</em>
</p><p>But to Sam it’s all he has <strong><em>left</em></strong> of Dean to cling onto.</p><p>Today has been one of those <strong>rare</strong> days when Dean wasn’t out helping Dad on a hunt, <em>(or chasing tail on the town)</em> but was actually spent in the confining space of their hotel room.</p><p><em>Together</em>.</p><p>The end of August is nearing and pretty soon it will be time for Dad to enroll them both back in school again for the Fall semester.</p><p>Sam doesn’t know if he’s even ready to deal with school, again.</p><p>Sam doesn’t feel much ready to deal with anything.</p><p>Period.</p><p>Not with all this lingering conflict gobbling up at his insides like acid.</p><p>Sam has been mulling over every last conceivable thing that Dean must think about him <em>(after Sam threw himself at Dean like a whore) </em>and Sam doesn’t know why his brain decides that this is the perfect time to <em>(again)</em> challenge the way things have been—<em>but it does.</em></p><p>While Dean is leaning back against the couch. Flannel open and sweat drenching his forehead, watching TV.</p><p>Without even thinking about it. Sam’s legs are carrying him from the bed <em>(where he has sat watching Dean for half-hour in silence)</em> and plopped him down, <em>front-and-center,</em> right on top of Dean’s lap.</p><p>So, that he’s now <em>astride</em> Dean.</p><p>Dean goes rigid under Sam—muscles locked and eyes leveled.</p><p>
  <em>Is it from shock or disdain?</em>
</p><p>Sam can’t tell.</p><p>Sam’s fought this stringent urge to occupy Dean’s lap for literal weeks now—guess he’s just fucking <em>done</em> fighting it.</p><p>“What’re you doin,’ Sammy? Get-off, would ya?” Dean mumbles, shifting the tiniest bit under Sam’s weight.</p><p>“Why? What’s so <strong>wrong</strong> with sitting on your lap, Dean?”</p><p>Sam has the bare minimum on by way of clothes: <em>a worn-thin cotton t-shirt and a pair of black-and-red checkered boxers.</em></p><p>Dean hesitates for a beat, then rolls his eyes.</p><p>“You’re too <em>big</em> to sit on my lap. You <em>ain’t</em> a little kid no more. You’re all knees and elbows now,” Dean insists, refusing to take the bait, it seems.</p><p>Sam pushes in closer until they are touching up their t-shirt clad fronts, lips inches apart.</p><p>“No, I ain’t little, De. So, quit treatin’ me like I am.” Sam narrows his dull-green eyes and runs his tongue over his dry-cracked pout.</p><p>Dean makes a noise in his throat that sounds <em>mildly</em> tortured and Sam ripples with chills when Dean’s hands rise to rest on either of his hips. Just proximally above the waistband of his low-hung boxers.</p><p>“What’re you <em>talkin’</em> bout, Sam?” That hard-edge that tells Sam that Dean is seconds from up and bookin’ it outta here, kicks into Dean’s tone.</p><p>Sam takes this opportunity to ground himself by positioning his hands-on Dean’s shoulders and scooting in closer until their crotches touch.</p><p>Dean’s fingers <em>tighten</em> their grip. Delve into the flesh above Sam’s hipbones. Tight enough to bruise—<em>but Sam doesn’t acknowledge it.</em></p><p>Any and all touch from Dean is better than <strong><em>no</em></strong> touch at all.</p><p><em>Bruising touches included</em>.</p><p>“Sam,” Dean warns. His voice sounds dangerously <em>hard</em>, like Dad’s does, sometimes.</p><p>“You <em>owe</em> me somethin,’” Sam dares to say, with a little tilt of his chin and incline of his neck.</p><p>“I dunno <strong>what</strong> you’re talkin’ bout, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is rough now and off-kilter.</p><p>Sam can see the beads of sweat making trails down Dean’s forehead. It’s stuffy in this room, despite the rumbling AC in the corner.</p><p>The heat has done quite a number on Sam and his underutilized teenage hormones.</p><p>“You took my <em>innocence</em>, De.” Sam latches his fingers onto the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt. Refusing to let go until he has said his bit. “And I wanna know <em>why</em> I wasn’t good enough for you.”</p><p>Sam searches Dean’s darkish-green eyes and finds profound traces of conflict inside them. There’s something else, too. Something cold and remote …</p><p>Dean tries to shove Sam aside, but Sam clings on—<em>no longer caring if Dean goes into one of his dreaded panics or not</em>—they are <strong>doing</strong> <em>this</em>.</p><p>No more avoidances. No more stupid, two-bit excuses.</p><p>Sam is altogether <strong><em>done</em></strong> with this.</p><p>He plants his weight on Dean’s hips and pushes until Dean falls back into the couch cushion—<em>his attempt at getting up thwarted</em>—and the wind is momentarily knocked outta Dean’s chest.</p><p>“Fuck! Let me up, Sammy! I <strong>mean</strong> it!” Dean threatens.</p><p>But at this point, there is absolutely <em>nothing</em> Dean can threaten Sam with that could actually <strong>wound</strong> him deeper than he’s already been <strong>scarred</strong>.</p><p>“No! You are gonna <strong>stay</strong>, Dean! I don’t <strong>care</strong>! This is fuckin’ <em>happening!</em> Okay?!” Sam takes this opportunity to rut forward. Grinding their crotches together, until the stimulation draws a strangled half-moan outta Dean.</p><p>
  <em>“Stop it, Sammy!”</em>
</p><p>Dean gasps when Sam mouths a line of kisses up the curve of Dean’s neck—causing the reddish-hot skin to react.</p><p>“I just wanna know <em>why</em> you won’t touch me—why you <strong><em>hate</em></strong> me so much for wantin’ this … like you <em>trained</em> me, too,” Sam rambles between gentle kisses and twisted emotions that stir and scream in his belly like fire.</p><p> Coarse-skinned hands, nudge and grope at Sam’s skin until he loses all reason. It’s been <em>too</em> long since Dean has willfully trekked his larger, more-experienced hands underneath Sam’s clothes—<em>and it’s godly.</em></p><p>This—<em>right now</em>—is like bliss and heaven all mixed into one acheful sin.</p><p>And a cry is torn outta Sam’s lips by the ministrations.</p><p>“I never meant to <em>train</em> you into this, Sammy … <em>Never</em> <em>…” </em>Dean lets the words fall in this tight, ball-like sound that cracks in the air.</p><p>Sam keeps grinding his hips. Using the throb of his need to further break Dean’s resistance.</p><p>“Yeah, well …  You <em>did</em>, anyway,” Sam huffs.</p><p>Nibbling at the shell of Dean’s ear with tight little noises of his own. Still rocking his hips in order to continue to create this glorious, much sought-after friction.</p><p>Dean makes more choked-off noises, but doesn’t verbally respond.</p><p>“I don’t care if you need me <em>drunk</em> … if you need to <strong><em>be</em></strong> drunk … jus’ lemme have you, De … Please … <em>whatever</em> you can spare, let me <strong>have</strong> it …”</p><p>Sam is desperate, right now.</p><p>He means <em>every</em> word that he is saying. Sam meant to stand his ground and get answers, but the more he’s rutted himself into a frenzy, the less answers matter—and the more he just <strong><em>needs</em></strong>.</p><p>Needs Dean to make shit <strong><em>better</em></strong>.</p><p>To make the loneliness go away—to make the built-up seed in his swollen balls, release.</p><p>
  <em> Answers be damned!</em>
</p><p>“F-Fuck … Fuck … <em>Sammy!”</em></p><p>Dean tears Sam’s shirt overhead and Sam doesn’t care where the fabric lands, ‘cause Dean’s hands are at his boxers next, kneading and cupping the poke of him, through them.</p><p>“You need it <em>bad</em>, don’t ya?” Dean taunts against Sam’s pink-tinted ear.</p><p>“Yeah, De. It’s been <strong>bad</strong> for a while …” Sam admits with a speckle of shame seeping underneath his skin.</p><p>Dean grunts and turns Sam onto his back, and ruts down hard into Sam’s crotch with his own, after Dean retracts his hand.</p><p> Kisses melt the knot of fear in Sam’s belly immediately, and he knows that Dean has essentially caved in, now.</p><p>
  <em>No holds barred.</em>
</p><p>This shameful—<em>aching thing</em>—between them is back and <strong>stronger</strong> than ever.</p><p>Despite months of denial and tons of avoidance—Dean treats Sam like he’s this precious, <em>prized</em> thing.</p><p>And it both confuses and takes Sam by storm, all over again.</p><p>Somewhere in the midst of every abstract thought that’s rushing through Sam’s head, Dean, strips off the remainder of their clothes.</p><p>Sam tries not to stare at the maimed-up flesh under Dean’s shirt, with any sorta detail in his expression.</p><p>Sam recalls how sensitive Dean was the <em>last</em> time he allowed himself to be this exposed—and Sam doesn’t want Dean to think he is <em>at all</em> revolted by what his eyes are seeing.</p><p>Sam tilts up his head and kisses at the marred-up tissue.</p><p>It’s not <em>ugly</em>, but this somewhat beautiful, <strong><em>macabre</em></strong> thing. Made up of scars and bruises and flesh wounds galore.</p><p>There is this moment where Dean meets Sam’s eye and this feral-like shame reflects there.</p><p>And maybe that shame winds-up and tethers with Sam’s own. Because all of this shame Sam <em>never</em> used to feel when he pursued touches from Dean is only present <em>(and one in the same)</em> because of Dean.</p><p>Dean’s shame and self-guilt screwed that same kinda fucked-up way of thinking into Sam.</p><p>Sam never thought needing Dean made him <em>‘bad’</em> until Dean turned this—<em>into that.</em></p><p>“I just … I just <em>want …”</em> Sam is trying to put his swirly, abundant thoughts into words—<em>plain and bare for Dean to know</em>—but it sure ain’t easy with Dean’s hands all over Sam’s Summer-scorched skin.</p><p>“I <em>know</em> what you <strong>want</strong>,” Dean sounds borderline <em>angry</em> all of the sudden—and his eyes darken. Just like that.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean’s mouth closes down over Sam’s—hard and brutal-like. With tongue, teeth, and scrabbling nails that delve and squeeze at Sam’s hot, exposed flesh.</p><p>Sam squeaks and writhes under the intensity of all of this—all of Dean’s underlying emotions—<em>denials</em>—<strong><em>everything</em></strong>.</p><p>And Sam <strong>understands</strong>.</p><p>Understands that there aren’t going to be answers—<em>ever.</em></p><p>Dean won’t give them and Sam needs to <strong>stop</strong> asking.</p><p>Questions are pointless—answers are like salt being rubbed into acres and acres of flesh-wounds.</p><p>At least to, <em>Dean</em>, anyway.</p><p>And all of this … all of this brutal <em>expression … </em>Sam senses in Dean’s touch—<em>in Dean’s kiss</em>—in all that Dean is, right now, reads like a fire-poker deep in Sam’s gut.</p><p>And they <strong><em>connect</em></strong>.</p><p>“Dean—” Sam is about to tell Dean he <em>understands</em>—<strong><em>finally</em></strong>. At least he is <strong>trying</strong> to, anyway.</p><p>Sam wants to <strong>say</strong> a hundred-million different things, but can’t formulate the words.</p><p>Because Dean is <strong>distracting</strong> him.</p><p>
  <em>Massaging. Squeezing. Tainting.</em>
</p><p><strong><em>Emblazoning</em></strong>--Sam’s, sensitive pieces and dragging him under this very, very twisted fraction of line they’ve just crossed into.</p><p><em>“Shuddup, Sammy!”</em> Dean cuts him off, mid-sentence. Smothers Sam in forceful, <em>combustive</em> kisses and borderline-violent touches.</p><p>The bruises <em>ache</em> <em>so</em> <strong><em>good</em></strong>, though, and Sam wants to tell Dean—but Dean told him to <em>‘Shuddup’</em> so he is.</p><p>Sam is reduced to whines and shudders, because Dean is suddenly <em>skin against skin</em> with Sam. The bareness of their throb-clad heats, press together and slick leaks outta the angry-red tip. The liquid merging with Dean’s own secretions.</p><p><em>When did Dean strip away their</em> <em>bottoms?</em></p><p>Sam doesn’t even <strong>know</strong>—this is all like some sorta fever dream or something like that to, Sam.</p><p>And he’s just, <em>somehow</em>, along for the ride and thrill.</p><p>Dean pushes up on both of Sam’s thighs. Sam’s breath hitches and they fall open to accommodate the bulk of, Dean, in-between.</p><p>Sam feels exposed and needy, right now. The shaft of his boy-part rests drooling on his belly.</p><p>While, Dean, tucks his head back down to lament kisses along Sam’s exposed neckline.</p><p>Still unable to process the fast-pace that Dean has now catapulted them into, Sam, squeaks.</p><p>The next thing Sam knows, Dean, buries <strong><em>home</em></strong> inside him!</p><p>And Sam is lost in this <em>take and rut</em>—until stars blare like stars behind his closed eyelids.</p><p><em>“Why’d ya have to be like this, huh?”</em> Dean half-grunts, between moans and half-choked sounds that <em>could</em> be sobs … <em>or pleasure-sounds </em>… Sam can’t tell.</p><p>Sam can’t differentiate between—not, while Dean is rocketing him to these <strong>outrageous</strong> new heights.</p><p>“Why’d ya have to be so <em>twisted-up</em>, Sammy?”</p><p>Sam can feel his thighs quivering from the brutal stab of exquisite friction Dean provides with his every powerful thrust in.</p><p>With such an abundance of conquests spread throughout his recent history, it’s no wonder that Dean is so goddamn <em>good</em> at this kinda thing.</p><p>Sam is like <em>‘no-good putty’</em> under Dean’s experienced fingertips.</p><p>“S-Sorry, De … <em>C-Can’t help it …”</em> Sam offers in a drawn-out whine.</p><p>It’s like something went and <strong>broke</strong> in Dean—<em>snapped like some sorta twig</em>—and it’s both perfect and horrific, all at once.</p><p>This is like a punishment and reward. All with a delicate string of emotions all tethered into one. And there is no explanation to be had—<em>just need and take.</em></p><p>And it’s hot and cold—<em>night and day</em>—and so many other things that Sam doesn’t know <strong>how</strong> to describe, even to himself.</p><p>All Sam <strong><em>knows</em></strong>, right goddamn now, is that Dean has <em>given</em> in.</p><p>And Sam is along for the ride—<em>and it is bliss and hell and everything.</em></p><p>
  <em>Just <strong>everything.</strong></em>
</p><p>There are a million little explosions happening in Sam’s body—coursing underneath his skin in a straight-shot down between his thighs, and it’s burning in his lower regions, <em>like fire.</em></p><p>Dean pants and moans in a loud crescendo—and comes <strong>apart</strong> on top of Sam.</p><p>Sam can feel Dean’s every quiver and quake—<em>every moan and shudder.</em></p><p>Dean’s hand closes around Sam’s need and tugs and jerks until Sam is lost in this <em>‘wrong-sick-bad’ </em>pleasure.</p><p>Sam is so caught up in this onslaught fucker of pleasure, that Sam doesn’t come back down for a <strong><em>while</em></strong> in the aftermath.</p><p>Dean has an arm draped around him and Sam is positioned at Dean’s side in a half-crunch.</p><p>And that’s the first thing Sam notices, once he can see and sense, properly again.</p><p>And Sam basks in this sense of belonging—<em>belonging with Dean.</em></p><p>While the tingly-need finally subsides from Sam’s spent frame.</p><p>And at some point. Sam dwindles off to sleep just like this. Content and exhausted from the <strong>smoldering</strong> heat in the room.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxi. course of downfalls.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>When did shit get <strong><em>so</em></strong> fucked up?</p><p>Dean doesn’t even know how to answer that anymore—<em>not even in his own damn head.</em></p><p>Did shit get like this when he was <em>Sam’s</em> age? When he was eleven and fell victim to <strong>Jake</strong> in a goddamn parking lot?</p><p>Did it get bad the first time Dad pushed a hand between Dean’s thighs and took bits of his <em>innocence</em> after feeding him pills?</p><p>
  <em>When?</em>
</p><p>When <em>exactly?</em></p><p>Somewhere between <em>‘turnin’ tricks,’</em> making a fucked-to-hell deal with Dad for pills, and hitting on every piece of ass he sees, Dean, lost his damn way.</p><p>It’s like every time he sees Sammy with those innocent-ish, warm green eyes, and hears him make a little plea for <em>‘stress relief,’</em> that something goes and just friggin’ snaps in Dean’s mind.</p><p>Dean made himself a goddamn <em>promise</em> that there would be no more touching of Sammy. No more <strong>kisses</strong>. No more touches under clothes … absolutely, fuck-all, <strong><em>nothing</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>And yet ….</em>
</p><p>Somehow, Dean, wakes up with, Sam, half-draped on his chest and torso—<em>buck-naked</em>—with a tight-drawn <em>little pecker</em> digging into his side.</p><p>
  <em>This shit can’t be happening!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not again!</em>
</p><p>Not just because Sam crawled on his lap, last night. Pleaded a little, with those sweet, ‘Sammy-eyes’—<em>and shamelessly seduced him!</em></p><p>
  <em>No friggin’ way!</em>
</p><p>Dean wants to be mad. He wants to scream and shout his horror to this whole freakin’ motel room … for all the good it would do … but the second he glances and sees a sleeping—<em>horny</em>—Sammy on his chest?</p><p>Dean caves—<em>hard</em>.</p><p>And he just <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> yell at Sammy … because, <strong><em>why</em></strong><em>? </em></p><p>What good has scolding Sammy for this kinda behavior <em>ever</em> done him in the past? And secondly—<em>and even more importantly</em>—what good would it do him if Dad were to find out?</p><p>And Dad might … one of these days, Dad, could walk in on them like this.</p><p>Curled up … basking in the afterglow of the worst sorta sin, imaginable … and where would that leave them?</p><p>Leave, <em>Dean</em>, especially?</p><p>This Summer has been spent in a whirlwind-blur of fornication, booze, pills, and secret <em>(shameful)</em> nights with Dad. All so that Dean could cover up his emotions for Sammy. All so Dean wouldn’t fall back <em>into</em> Sammy—and now look what he’s gone and fucking done!</p><p>Dean hates himself for fucking it all up.</p><p>For fucking this perfect thing, he had going with, <strong>Sammy</strong>—<em>all up.</em></p><p>The avoidance thing was the best thing for Sammy … the <em>actual</em> best thing ... because it meant Sammy was <strong>safe</strong> from Dean.</p><p>And now, once again—<em>he’s fucking</em> <strong><em>not</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Goddamnit!</em>
</p><p>Dean shifts a little on this <em>‘too-small’</em> couch. The cushions are a little bigger than most couches have, but still aren’t remotely big enough for the two of them to sleep like this.</p><p>It’s cramped and confining—and Dean realizes the close proximity has made him wake with a full-blown <em>morning wood</em>, too.</p><p>Dean clenches his eyes shut and tries—<em>hard</em>—not to panic. Because it isn’t <em>just</em> that he is erect and holding Sammy … No. It’s also the fact that Dean is confined to this couch, pressed down under the weight of Sammy.</p><p>Being underneath someone—<em>sober</em>—is a lot for Dean to handle. It brings back memories of Jake—<em>and of every vile man that has held him down and taken things from him.</em></p><p>Being confined stirs up a lot of shit in Dean’s head that he would rather not <em>have</em> stirred up.</p><p>“S-Sammy,” Dean whispers, and tries to nudge his brother a little.</p><p>But, like a goddamn brick wall, Sammy, doesn’t budge—<em>and doesn’t wake.</em></p><p>He’s fucking <strong><em>out</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean counts to ten in his head for stability. Then desperately shoves off the couch and immediately clashes with the carpet, below.</p><p>Momentarily stunned, Dean, groans out his displeasure and breathes through this blind-pain.</p><p><strong><em>Now</em></strong>, Sam, wakes up.</p><p>
  <em>Go figure.</em>
</p><p>Swiping sleep from his eyes, Sam, peers down at Dean with a curious expression on his face. “You alright, De?” Sam asks, so damn innocently that it squeezes at Dean’s insides.</p><p>“I’m <em>fine,</em> Sammy.” Dean needs to get his head on straight, because otherwise … <em>otherwise,</em> he doesn’t know what’s gonna wind up happening.</p><p>And he doesn’t want to find out, neither.</p><p>Sammy flops onto his belly on the couch, then sits up. The protrusion of his red-swollen cock on full display between his legs. And Dean finds his eyes linger on it, for just a <em>second</em> too long—<em>and Sam notices.</em></p><p>A pinkish blush spreads over Sam’s cheeks and he eyes Dean somewhat shyly.</p><p>They both smell of dried sweat and last night’s seed <em>(which is dried on their thighs and abdomens)</em> which is par for the course, but Dean has only just realized it, by glancing at Sam’s boyhood …</p><p>“I guess … sleeping with you has me a little … <em>needy</em> …” Sam admits, blustering through the words while he fidgets and gives his thighs a tight clench to subdue the pressure, a bit.</p><p>“Yeah? Well, <em>neediness</em> aside … It <em>can’t</em> happen again, Sam. I freakin’ mean it this time.” Dean <em>(hopes anyway)</em> that he’s making himself very, <strong>damn</strong> clear. ‘Cause this shit <strong><em>has</em></strong> to stop … It just <strong>has</strong> to. For Dean’s own <strong>sanity</strong>, it has to.</p><p>Sam gets this look in his eye that tells, Dean, ignoring this <em>isn’t</em> going to be so simple this time.</p><p>As if <em>anything</em> has ever been simple with Sammy …</p><p>
  <em>Ever …</em>
</p><p>Sam slinks off the couch and lands with a little <em>‘thud,’</em> on Dean’s <em>(unintentionally)</em> open lap-space. Plants his hands on, Dean’s shoulders, and looks him dead in the eye.</p><p>“I get it, De. We don’t have to <em>talk</em> about it. But I <strong>need</strong> it. Need <em>you.”</em> Sam shifts his hips, rubbing the brunt of their erections together with every little pivot. And Dean can’t help himself—<em>he moans</em>—because it feels so devilishly <em>godly</em> …</p><p>
  <em>Goddamnit-all!</em>
</p><p>“An’ I don’t <strong><em>care</em></strong> if we talk or not … but … but I <strong>won’t</strong> go back to what we <em>had</em> goin’ on all Summer. I <strong><em>won’t</em></strong>, De.”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck!</em>
</p><p>Sam has single-handedly reached in his little-Sammy-hands and wrecked-up Dean’s <em>whole</em> friggin’ insides. Shot, Dean’s plans, straight-to-hell with one cruel little twist of <em>words!</em></p><p>Dean cups the swell of Sam’s cheek and swallows around a shared kiss. Their lips tangle and tussle and Dean is breathless and needy for <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy in seconds—<em>and (for an instant) all the bad thoughts are just gone.</em></p><p>And it isn’t <em>fair</em> that Sammy can do this to him.</p><p>Pulls this sorta <strong><em>weight</em></strong> with him.</p><p>“Sammy …” Dean half-sighs when their kiss breaks. “Why won’t you <em>ever</em> just let me protect you? Why you gotta make it <em>so</em> difficult? Huh, Sammy? <em>Why you gotta be this way?” </em></p><p>Dean slicks his tongue across Sammy’s lips. Then melds it back into a <strong>deep</strong>, scorching kiss between them—<em>that steals Sammy’s breath away</em>—Dean, can hear this little shutter in Sammy’s airway.</p><p>Sammy makes a little noise, when their dizzying kiss breaks and peers into Dean’s eyes.</p><p>“I don’t wanna be <strong>protected</strong>, De. I just wanna be <em>close</em> to you … Just wanna be <strong><em>like</em></strong> you …”</p><p>Sam’s words give Dean pause and his <em>‘Big-Brother-concern,’</em> takes over.</p><p>“No, Kiddo. Hey. You <strong><em>don’t</em></strong> wanna be like me, okay? Don’t <em>ever</em> say you wanna be like me, ‘cause you don’t. Sammy. Ain’t no one wants to be like me. You <strong>got</strong> that?” Dean hopes that his words hold the hard-like <strong>edge</strong> he’s trying for.</p><p>But with Sammy there is <em>always</em> a risk that he won’t take this seriously.</p><p>Sammy never seems to take Dean <em>seriously</em>.</p><p>“Don’t tell me what I <em>want</em>, De. I <strong><em>know</em></strong> what I want,” Sam answers with all the stubbornness of a pure-blooded, <em>‘Winchester.’</em></p><p>Dean’s heart tightens.</p><p>“Clearly you don’t have a friggin’ <strong>clue</strong> what you want if you keep spoutin’ off this crap about bein’ like <strong>me</strong>.” Dean doesn’t want to <strong>hear</strong> this.</p><p>He doesn’t want <strong><em>his</em></strong> <em>‘Forever-Little,’ </em>Sammy to be this gross, untouchable being like <em>Dean</em> is …</p><p>God-in-heaven, Dean, is <strong><em>never</em></strong> gonna want Sammy to be like he is … for fuck’s sake, he is no damn <strong><em>hero</em></strong>. He isn’t even good at keepin’ <em>himself</em> clean and safe.</p><p>He’s a goddamn <strong>stain</strong> on society—<em>a disappointment</em>—and that is all.</p><p>Sammy <em>still</em> has some pureness left and Dean wants some of it to survive Sam’s youth … even just a <strong><em>fragment</em></strong> needs to survive!</p><p>Sammy is clearly not having Dean’s insistences, today. Because in the next second, Sam, has their lips back together and his small, hands brushing over Dean’s deformed flesh in long, tender sweeps that have Dean quivering with urgency of his own.</p><p><em>“S-Sammy …”</em> Dean hears his own voice crackle with lust, while Sam squirms and pushes, clad, against Dean’s swollen throb.</p><p>Every time Dean tries to take this part of himself away from Sam it always comes tail-back around to the beginning—To <em>Dean</em> and how he trained Sammy to <strong>react</strong> to his every touch.</p><p>To keen for him with these soft, sensual-like sounds that both soothe and reveal pleasure.</p><p>Dean keeps trying to make Sammy normal but he realizes now that he <em>can’t</em>. ‘Cause … <em>‘Cause</em> Dean fucked-up, too, long ago when he helped wire Sammy’s brain with cues and bells, <em>wrongly</em>, about what <em>is</em> and <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> normal.</p><p>So, rightin’ that mistake is now, futile as hell.</p><p>“You gonna shower with me or not, De? I wanna be clean again … and I want <strong><em>you</em></strong> to clean me. It’s been too long since your hands washed my skin … <em>way</em> too long …”</p><p>Dean is stunned when Sammy grips his hands, tight. Then guides them over the curves and crevices of sweaty, flush skin.</p><p>There are blemishes that didn’t <em>used</em> to be here. They cover Sammy and some, Dean, can spot <em>(now that it’s daylight)</em> are self-inflicted little things that Dean knows he caused Sammy to make all over his skin.</p><p>Dean spent this past Summer justifying any and all <em>‘minimally-damaging-wounds,’</em> that Sammy might inflict as a means to an end.</p><p>It was more important <em>(at the time)</em> that Sammy was unmolested <em>(anymore than he already had been)</em> than it was to make sure Sammy didn’t make them.</p><p>
  <em>Pointless … </em>
</p><p>Everything Dean has strived to accomplish with Sammy is completely—<em>utterly</em>—pointless.</p><p>Dean’s own skin is gross and on display to Sammy’s curious eyes, too, right now, but there isn’t much Dean can do. Sammy already made a show of kissing his vile scar-stained skin, last night.</p><p>So, there is no point hiding his shameful visage, now.</p><p>“Sammy-Sam, what’ve you <em>done</em> to yourself? Hm?” Dean ignores Sam’s bold words. Lowers his hands and stills Sam’s mind-numbingly rutting hips, in the hopes of being able to think straight again.</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, friggin,’ right.</em>
</p><p>“Nothin,’ De,” Sam lies, so easily that it makes Dean quiver to hear it.</p><p>Dean slakes the palms of his hands up Sammy’s belly, across his petite chest, to snake around to his back.</p><p>Dragging. Kneading. Caressing, the touch-starved tissue, until Sammy breaks down into high-pitched keens and opens his already-spread thighs even wider. Seeking out contact to his still-swollen and throbby bits.</p><p>“If we are gonna do this, then you’re <em>not</em> gonna be allowed to lie to me, Sammy,” Dean whispers. Hot against the shell of Sammy’s ear.</p><p>Sam shivers and Dean turns up his mouth with an innocuous smile. ‘Cause, he’s finally decided that this shit is gonna be <em>permanent</em>. Sam always <strong><em>was</em></strong> needy—<em>and if Dean has cemented Sam’s place in hell, then so be it.</em></p><p>There ain’t gonna be no changing it, <em>ever</em>.</p><p>So, why bother with the tryin’?</p><p>Sammy looks up at Dean with these pleading eyes and for a second, Dean, is reminded of the <em>‘Before-Sammy,’</em> from when Sammy was much littler. The Sammy that could put on a <em>‘Sammy-pout,’</em> and convince Dean to bring him the Sun and Moon if he wanted it.</p><p>“Deeee …” Sammy whines in the most exquisite way that has Dean’s <em>own</em> inflated <em>rod</em>, twitch.</p><p>One thing, Dean, does know tons about—is sex.</p><p>And the way Sammy is lost in this need for touch … well, it presents a new way for Dean to make Sammy listen.</p><p>In one swift movement, Dean, leans forward.</p><p>Sammy falls back with a startled gasp and Dean uses one of his hands to pin both of Sammy’s over his head—<em>effectively holding Sam down.</em></p><p>“I mean it, Sammy. If you <em>lie</em> to me, then, that means I have to discipline you. An’ you ain’t gonna want <em>that</em>, Kiddo,” Dean threatens.</p><p>Sammy huffs and fusses underneath him, but Dean doesn’t give an <em>inch</em>.</p><p>Instead, Dean, propels his weight forward to keep Sammy’s thighs apart and kisses <em>love</em> bites across the span of Sammy’s neck to encourage precious cries and quivers of <em>reaction</em>.</p><p>“Lemme go, De … what’re you <em>doin’?”</em> Sammy breathes, in-between hitches and keens of frustration.</p><p>The sounds head straight to Dean’s lower regions. Spurning this ambient lust that just won’t <strong><em>die</em></strong> in him.</p><p>It is driving Dean <em>bat-shit.</em></p><p>But for this moment, Dean, ignores it.</p><p>With a split-second move, Dean, wraps his left-hand around Sam’s throbby rod and jacks up and down from base to tip—<em>with hard, rigorous strokes.</em></p><p>Sam reacts in a fit of bucking and squealing that has Dean hotter than molten lava—<em>with his insides broiling</em>—but Dean keeps his outwardly cool and carries through on his plan.</p><p>Dean can <em>tell</em> when Sam is on the verge of release.</p><p>There is this little pivot of Sam’s hips and a hitch in Sam’s breathing—followed by a loud, <em>cry-like,</em> keen of intensity.</p><p>All of those cue Dean in to the inevitable explosion about to occur. And <strong>just</strong> at the mark—Dean pulls back his jacking left-hand and pins Sam with all his might.</p><p>Sam grunts and gasps and even <em>whines</em> Dean’s name as seed spurts out of his <em>abandoned</em> pecker.</p><p>Dean holds him fast and watches Sam’s emission. Hot slick puddles and pools. Sam twitches and hisses through the staggering <em>need</em> that accompanies a <em>ruined</em> orgasm.</p><p>Dean has suffered through more than <em>one</em> ruined orgasm at Dad’s cruel hand. It’s a punishment of sorts, ‘cause it feels like bliss up and <em>until</em> the hand releases—and the orgasm tapers off while all the seed releases in a fiery pulse of shattered lust and anticipation.</p><p>And it <em>doesn’t</em> give satisfaction—just want for more as well as a pure depletion of energy.</p><p>Sam simpers and groans as the last of his orgasm is chased away by <strong>lack</strong> of friction. And the remainder of his seed spills uselessly out onto his lower-belly.</p><p>“D-Dean!” Sam keens and jerks around as he fights to salvage his <em>waning</em> orgasm, <em>but can’t.</em></p><p>Dean is bigger and stronger and Sam couldn’t escape <em>this</em> hold even if his head was clear instead of thick with foggy-lust and sleep.</p><p>Dean knows his brother’s physical weaknesses—they still spar every single day.</p><p>“If you wanna be <em>mine,</em> Sammy, yer gonna start <strong>listenin’</strong> to me,” Dean explains.</p><p>This time, he <em>knows</em> Sammy is paying attention.</p><p>Dean can see this deep hurt in Sammy’s eyes and in a split-second of sinful weakness, Dean, lowers his head to slake a kiss over Sammy’s plump pout. Cooling the dissatisfied burn, he knows is scorching through Sammy’s loins, right about now.</p><p>“What did you <em>do</em> to me?” Sammy sniffles when the kiss breaks and Dean can see the tears in Sammy’s eyes.</p><p>The letdown hits, <em>suddenly</em>, like a ton of bricks. Dean knows from experience how shitty it feels. It fucks up those <em>rampant</em> hormones and feels like it turned your insides <em>right-side</em> out.</p><p>It’s unpleasant, but, Dean, knows Sammy will never learn the easy way—<em>about anything.</em></p><p>“Ruined your orgasm,” Dean tells him. Finally easing up on Sam.</p><p>Freeing his wrists and letting him maneuver into an upright position on the motel carpet.</p><p>Sam observes the slick coating his belly and swallows thickly through a couple tears.</p><p>“It <em>hurt</em>, De …” Sammy clenches his fists.</p><p>Dean sees him digging in those nails. Inflicting more damage to his already shredded palms and Dean reaches out to stop him.</p><p>“It didn’t <em>hurt</em>, come on, Sammy-Sam. It feels <em>unpleasant</em> but it doesn’t <em>hurt</em> …” Dean insists, while trying to keep himself from this impending <em>(and very sudden)</em> panic.</p><p>What the fuck is wrong with him? Something is seriously messed up in his head for using <em>that</em> as a punishment …</p><p>Sex is what Dean was—<em>is, goddamnit! </em>—trying to avoid with Sam … and now he’s gone and turned it into a <em>punishment</em> …</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean blanches when a thought crosses his mind. A sick—<strong><em>mangled</em></strong>—thought: <em>‘I’m just like, Dad.’</em></p><p>
  <em>Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Dean releases Sam’s quivering hands and backs away from his weepy-eyed, little brother.</p><p>Sammy <em>should</em> hate him for this.</p><p>In the <strong>moment</strong>, it seemed like a <em>good</em> idea but Sammy is still little yet … and he’s <em>crying …</em> and Dean just dismissed him for saying it <em>hurt</em> …</p><p>
  <em>Shit. Shit. Shit.</em>
</p><p><em>‘I’m a literal fucking monster!’</em> Dean thinks to himself, furthering this panic.</p><p>Dean feels panicky and gross—and he realizes … in a split-second … that he is going into a full-fledged panic attack—<em>right friggin’ now!</em></p><p>Sam is suddenly eying him with a wide expression and Dean realizes that his hands are not only trembling but holding little <em>hunks</em> of hair.</p><p>
  <em>Shit! </em>
</p><p>Did he just pull his actual <strong><em>hair</em></strong> out of his head?!</p><p>Dean doesn’t remember <strong>gripping</strong> his hair … but he <em>must</em> have …</p><p>The proof of his temporary lapse of time is showing in his own fists—and if not <strong><em>just</em></strong> the freakin’ hair he ripped out of his head, then in the wide-eyed <strong>horror</strong> of <em>little</em> Sammy.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have <strong>done</strong> that … shouldn’t have <em>touched</em> you … fuck … fuck … I’m <em>sorry</em>, Sammy … forgive me … <em>forgive me …”</em></p><p>Dean sheds tears and doesn’t even realize he’s doing <strong><em>that</em></strong> either.</p><p>Not until Sammy reaches out and pulls back tear-wet fingers from Dean’s cheeks.</p><p>Shit …<em> ‘Gotta stop crying … ‘M not a kid … not a kid …’ </em>Dean tells himself in his head, but he can’t stop the tears.</p><p>They just keep falling.</p><p>And Sammy’s eyes keep growing wider and wider as he watches while Dean cracks at the seams and falls to bits.</p><p>This was the <strong><em>final</em></strong> straw.</p><p>The last thing that Dean <em>ever</em> wanted to do—the lowest Dean has <strong>ever</strong> sunken with his Sammy …</p><p>Hurting him … <em>sexually</em> … like Dad hurts <strong><em>Dean</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean suddenly wants Sammy’s seed <em>(from last night)</em> <strong>off</strong> of him.</p><p>He wants the <em>memories</em> to go away … He just wants everything to <strong><em>stop</em></strong> so that he can do a <strong>hard</strong>-<em>reset</em> … a freakin’ reset … ‘cause … ‘cause … Dean can’t <strong>take</strong> any more of this <em>shit</em>.</p><p>He really <em>can’t</em> take anymore!</p><p>Somewhere in all of this Sammy has climbed onto his lap and clung to him like he’s some kinda life-preserver and they’re <em>stranded</em> in this thick, vast ocean …</p><p>But Dean <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> a goddamned life preserver.</p><p>He shouldn’t be <strong>near</strong>, Sammy … <em>or anyone.</em></p><p>Dean is so <em>damaged</em> … so freakin’ <strong>ruined</strong> … and nothing he says or does is <em>ever</em> okay … <em>ever …</em></p><p>There is no washing away this stain of filth that marks him. This lack of <em>innocence</em> … Dad <strong>uses</strong> him. <strong>Beats</strong> him. <strong><em>Trains</em></strong> him to be this insipid soldier of death and self-loathing.</p><p>Same as, <em>Dad,</em> is himself.</p><p>And Dean just goes <em>along</em> with it.</p><p>Because it’s <strong>his</strong> <em>fate</em>—<strong><em>his</em></strong><em> destiny.</em></p><p>But, now … now that tainted, filth-packed, reality has touched down on Sam—<strong><em>his</em></strong> <em>Sammy!</em></p><p>No … that’s <strong>not</strong> okay!</p><p>This <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> okay!</p><p>This <strong>isn’t</strong> Sammy’s <strong><em>fate</em></strong><em>! </em></p><p>
  <em>Sammy isn’t like Dean!</em>
</p><p>“Dean!” Sammy is screaming his name and clutching him tight like Sam is afraid Dean is gonna just <em>vanish</em>.</p><p>And Dean fucking <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to!</p><p>
  <em>He does!</em>
</p><p>He <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to disappear!</p><p>
  <em>Forever!</em>
</p><p>That would be better than feeling this sorta <strong>hurt</strong> all the time …</p><p>
  <em>So much better …</em>
</p><p>“I won’t <strong>lie</strong>! I won’t lie <em>ever</em> again! <strong>Never</strong> again! I promise! I learned my lesson, De! I <strong>learned</strong>! Just come back! Don’t leave me! <em>Don’t leave me, De!” </em></p><p>Sammy is clinging to Dean.</p><p>Dean <em>senses</em> the pressure on his frame—but it’s just a matter of reconnecting his brain to his body at this point … which isn’t fucking easy when he wants nothing more than to be <strong>gone</strong> from this gross conglomeration of skin, blood, and bones, <em>forever!</em></p><p>But it’s Sammy’s <em>words</em> that bring him back.</p><p><strong><em>Apologies</em></strong> …</p><p>Sammy is <strong>apologizing</strong>!</p><p>
  <em>Oh god! What has he <strong>done</strong>?!</em>
</p><p>Dean shoves Sammy off his lap—<em>hard</em>—and spearheads into the bathroom.</p><p>In a second, Dean, has lost the contents of his stomach to the toilet.</p><p>He is <strong>sick</strong> until he can’t physically <em>be</em> sick anymore—and leans against the wall for firm support—for <em>shelter</em> and <strong>peace</strong>.</p><p>His mind is swirling and he can’t <em>believe</em> he just taught Sam a <em>lesson</em> … like <strong>Dad</strong> taught <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>Dean learned <em>(thanks to Dad) </em>that his orgasms <strong>aren’t</strong> guaranteed—<em>aren’t necessary</em>—and if he displeases Dad <em>(even sexually) </em>some night, then his orgasms are <em>ruined</em>, or forgone entirely. Which is <em>fine</em>, because Dean doesn’t <strong>matter</strong>. Dean’s <em>pleasure</em> doesn’t matter.</p><p>Dean has <strong>never</strong> mattered …</p><p>And … and Dean just taught that <strong>same</strong> twisted-ass lesson to <em>his</em> Sammy.</p><p>What kind of sick, sadistic, <strong><em>monster</em></strong> does that?</p><p>Dad is <em>different</em> … Dad <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> a monster ‘cause he does it to <em>protect</em> Dean from <strong>himself—</strong>from his own <em>destructive</em> tendencies that would otherwise run rampant in his head … but Dean … Dean just did it to <strong>make</strong> Sammy tell him something that Sam is <em>(clearly)</em> embarrassed about.</p><p>Dean <em>suffers</em> embarrassment.</p><p>Dean is embarrassed about his <em>own</em> revolting skin-damage. Dean doesn’t talk about <strong>why</strong> he does it … or how … to <strong>anybody</strong>, for that <em>same</em> reason …</p><p>But Dean expects <em>Sammy</em> to talk to him about why <strong><em>he</em></strong> hurts himself?</p><p>Dean <em>knows</em> why Sammy hurts himself.</p><p>Sammy hurts himself, ‘cause Dean is a <strong>terrible</strong> fucking brother!</p><p> A terrible <strong><em>person</em></strong>, really …</p><p>Dean is like <em>poison</em>.</p><p>And the worst part comes with the <strong>knowing</strong> of it.</p><p>The knowing of his own <em>poisonous,</em> downright <strong><em>insidious</em></strong> properties.</p><p>Yet, <em>here</em> he fucking is.</p><p>Trying to fix what <strong>he</strong> broke <em>(a long time ago)</em> in Sam through <em>sexual punishment.</em></p><p>
  <em>Jesus-fucking-Christ!</em>
</p><p>Dean squeezes his eyes between his thumb and forefinger, while trying to keep himself <strong>together</strong>.</p><p>Sammy appears, again, when Dean opens his eyes. His face is <em>stained</em> with tears, hands <em>white</em> from fisting them hard enough to break open <strong>skin</strong>.</p><p>Dean can see traces of blood seeping from his brother’s closed fists. Hitting the tile with little <em>‘taps,’</em> that ripple Dean with alarm.</p><p><em>“Shit! Sammy!</em> <strong><em>Stop</em></strong><em>!” </em></p><p>Dean snaps out of his own trauma to reach for Sammy’s closed fists. Unclenching the nails and kissing the bloodied surfaces. Tasting metallic-y-iron on his lips, when he withdraws.</p><p>“Y-You <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> check out on m-me, De … You c-can’t leave me a-alone like that …” Sammy whimpers, through a sniffle.</p><p>Dean quivers through his self-repulsion and forces his mind to ground itself. The last thing, Dean, needs is to send <em><span class="u">Sammy</span></em> into a psychotic break …</p><p>Then they would <strong><em>both</em></strong> just be fucked-up broken.</p><p>Dean has to <strong><em>stay</em></strong> … <em>stay <strong>sane</strong></em> … for Sammy.</p><p><em>Always</em> for Sammy.</p><p>“Okay. <em>Okay,</em> Sammy … <em>Hey,</em> I’m right here. ‘M not gonna <strong>leave</strong> you. I <em>promised</em>, didn’t I?” Dean smooths Sammy’s hair and kisses the top of Sammy’s forehead near the skelp.</p><p>Dean <em>needs</em> to get them in a shower.</p><p>He sees that Sammy’s seed is still <em>smeared</em> <em>(like a neon-sign reminder of Dean’s punishment for Sammy)</em> on Sam’s belly and Dean can’t think about what he did.</p><p>
  <em>Not just now.</em>
</p><p>Dean <strong>needs</strong> to clear his head.</p><p>
  <em>Desperately.</em>
</p><p>Standing to his feet, Dean, turns on the shower and steps in. Not even waiting for the water to heat-up. He just lets the cold wetness spray his skin, then beckons for Sammy to follow suit.</p><p>Sammy rises and steps in after Dean. And even allows Dean to wash the clear-ish-white, <em>slick</em> from his belly.</p><p>Dean can finally breathe right, again—<em>once the tawdry reminder is washed down the drain.</em></p><p>“I won’t <em>ever</em> do that to you again, Sammy. Can you <em>ever</em> forgive me, Kiddo?” Dean whispers, sadly—his skin primed to peel off at the bone.</p><p>Sammy peers up at him with those <em>trademark</em> <em>‘Sammy-eyes,’ </em>and says, “Who is, Jake?”</p><p>Dean scrambles back until he hits the wall. Almost slipping on the wet surface of the porcelain tub he rears back <em>so</em> fast and hard!</p><p>“What?!” Dean’s mouth runs dry, all of the sudden.</p><p>And he feels like he might have an actual heart attack, right here and now!</p><p>
  <em>“Jake—”</em>
</p><p>“Where did you fuckin’ <strong>hear</strong> that name?!” Dean reacts with fear and pain in his voice. His damn voice-box <strong>cracks</strong> on the words.</p><p>“You said it … while you were … <em>were</em> <strong><em>gone</em></strong><em> …”</em></p><p>“I … I <strong><em>what</em></strong><em>?!”</em> Dean can’t remember what he just said or did … it’s like he was <strong>here</strong>. <em>Sorta</em> <em>… </em>But he <strong>wasn’t</strong> here.</p><p>And it’s all blurry and far away bits. Like a foggy window that he can’t peer through proper-like even if he tries repeatedly to wipe it clean.</p><p>It’s still just <em>mist-like</em>, blurriness.</p><p>“You said you ‘didn’t wanna be <strong>like</strong>, Jake.’ So, who <em>is,</em> Jake?”</p><p>
  <em>Always with the questions!</em>
</p><p>Dean closes his eyes, counts to ten, and rights himself. Going to stand back in front of Sammy.</p><p>“Don’t you <em>ever</em> mention <strong>that</strong> name to me. <em>Ever</em>. You hearin’ me, Sammy? Tell me you’re <em>understandin’</em> me,” Dean holds Sammy’s cheeks to make him stay—<em>to make him listen.</em></p><p>Dean can see the fear and confusion in Sammy’s light-green eyes. Sammy is still <em>fragile</em> after what Dean just put him through and Dean doesn’t wanna push <strong><em>too</em></strong> hard … Dean doesn’t want to break Sammy like Dean just broke, <em>himself</em>.</p><p> “I <em>h-hear</em> you, De …” Sammy jerks his head back from Dean’s hold and lowers his eyes to the tub. Watching absent-like as the drain takes down the water in swirls.</p><p>Dean’s mind travels to the state of Sammy’s palms after he fisted them full of blood and Dean reaches for Sammy’s hands, kissing the palms, again.</p><p>Watching the little drips of crimson still pooling up and washing down the drain.</p><p>Inclining his head, Dean, lowers Sam’s palms and aims for Sammy’s lips. Smearing their lips together under the <em>(newly)</em> hot, steamy water.</p><p>Sammy kisses him back, but there is this unmistakable <strong>sadness</strong> in it, now. Timidity and fretfulness that wasn’t there <em>before</em>—wasn’t there <em>this morning</em>.</p><p><em>Dean,</em> put that there … along with that <em>disgusting</em> lesson about <strong><em>lies</em></strong> between them.</p><p>And, Dean, keeps more, <em>lies,</em> than <em>his</em> Sammy.</p><p>Holds them inside and <em>never</em> lets Sammy see—so why should he make Sammy tell him things?</p><p>Why should Sammy trust <em>Dean</em> at all?</p><p>Dean hoists Sammy up from the tub, braces him against the cold tile of the wall, and kisses more <em>forcefully</em> this time.</p><p>Sammy gasps into Dean’s mouth and squeaks when Dean digs his fingers into Sammy’s sides. Pushes, <em>massages</em> his creamy, smooth skin until Sammy is keening with a combination of joy and need. It’s arousing to watch.</p><p>This same <em>tug</em> occurs in Dean’s lower region that has plagued Dean since he can remember when touching Sammy.</p><p>Maybe this was <strong>always</strong> gonna be their destiny.</p><p>Maybe fighting it was <strong>futile</strong>—<em>and pointless.</em></p><p>And Dean is gonna have to take a lot of time to get used to this sorta thing—<em>but he finds he can.</em></p><p><em>For</em> <em>Sammy</em>.</p><p>Dean can be <em>affectionate</em>—and commit these <strong>sinful</strong> pleasure-acts with <em>his</em> Sammy.</p><p>If it stops the self-harm and the <em>bitch-fits</em> … and really all of the chaotic traits Sammy has picked up these past few years. Then Dean is gonna have to go along with this, <em>again</em>.</p><p>“D-De … w-what’re you—”</p><p>“Shhh,” Dean breathes against Sammy’s bright-red pout. “You forget <em>that</em> name, and you promise to never, <em>ever</em>, dig into the things I do <em>outside</em> of our motel room, again, and I’ll give you <em>this</em>, Sammy. I’ll give you what I <strong>can</strong> of myself, alright?” Dean drops a hand and starts to rub and jerk Sammy’s <em>(already erect and raring to go)</em> boyhood, again.</p><p>Sammy squeaks in a <em>higher-pitch</em> this time and angles his hips to hump against Dean’s stroking hand.</p><p>“You think you can <em>do</em> that for me, Sammy?” Dean teases. His lips less than an inch from Sammy’s lips, now. “Let me have what I <em>need</em> to have outside of this room, with my promise that I’ll <em>always</em> come back and give you what <em>you</em> need in return? Can you <em>make</em> me that promise, Sammy? Make me this <em>one</em> promise—and I won’t try to stop this <em>thing</em> between us, again.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t know how he is gonna live with this shame and guilt that builds like a ten-ton weight in his soul, whenever he corrupts Sammy like this, but its better than the fear that Sam might <strong><em>follow</em></strong> him.</p><p>Might find out about the <em>disgusting</em> taint-like thing that lives buried down <strong>deep</strong> in Dean’s twisted-up soul.</p><p>Dad warned Dean about this—<em>so many friggin’ times</em>—but Dean kept touching <em>his</em> Sammy anyway.</p><p>Kept kissing and needing <em>his</em> Sammy until it was, too, late to end all this.</p><p>So, Dean, made his bed—<em>now he’s gonna lie in it.</em></p><p>And one thing Dean knows he can <strong>never</strong> face, is Sammy knowing the <strong>truth</strong> about things.</p><p>The truth about <em>who</em> Dean is and <strong>how</strong> he <em>got</em> like this.</p><p>Dean uses his seductive persona—<em>his God-given ability</em>—to appeal to Sammy’s <em>carnal</em> need in whatever way he can.</p><p>And Sammy cracks—<em>splinters to pieces</em>—and falls right in.</p><p>Just like <em>Dad</em> did. Just like <em>Jake</em> did. Just like every other <em>man</em> and <em>woman</em> that comes into <strong>contact</strong> with Dean does, when Dean <em>pursues</em> them.</p><p>If Dean <strong><em>tries</em></strong>—they <em>give</em> in.</p><p>“I p-promise, De. I’ll do <em>w-whatever</em>. Just …” Sammy swallows thick and loud, “Just lemme <em>have</em> you … let me have <em>t-this</em> <em>…” </em>Sammy pleads with his eyes, with his tongue <em>(that drags out between his enticing, red lips),</em> with his whole body as it squirms and aches and fucking <em>needs</em> against Dean’s own.</p><p>
  <em>Fucking hell …</em>
</p><p>Maybe it <em>is</em> a <em>‘Winchester-born,’ </em><strong>curse</strong>, after-all.</p><p>Because Dean always cracks for Sammy—<em>eventually</em>.</p><p>Every <em>friggin’</em> time.</p><p>
  <em>It may take months … weeks … years … but Dean always friggin’ cracks.</em>
</p><p>“Okay, Sammy-Sam. Okay,” Dean breathes around a lump of half-baked emotion in his throat.</p><p>Dean doesn’t break his promises—<em>ever.</em> So, this kinda promise is freakin’ huge! And, <em>God-help-him</em>, Dean, <strong>wants</strong> this, too.</p><p>He wants it so friggin’ bad—and that’s hardest of all to admit <em>(even to himself).</em> ‘Cause it’s bad—and Dean <em>knows</em> it’s bad, but he just <strong>can’t</strong> help it.</p><p>Sammy is like this treasure-trove of squirmy, aroused flesh that reacts to Dean’s every touch and maneuver like a whole damn livewire infused with supercharged electricity or something.</p><p>And the sensual, <strong><em>needy</em></strong> way Sammy reacts to Dean pawing him up and down is almost <em>criminal</em>.</p><p>‘Cause, Dean, brims with this sordid arousal that sparks and claws at his belly from the inside—and sometimes Dean forgets that this <strong><em>is</em></strong> Sammy—that this is his <em>little-friggin’-<strong>brother</strong></em> that he’s feeling all up and mackin’ on.</p><p>And … and <strong>worst</strong> of all, Dean, <em>always</em> feels the little <em>nudge</em> of Sam’s boyhood and is instantly reminded of Sammy’s <strong><em>gender</em></strong> in all of this.</p><p>Maybe if Sammy were a <em>girl</em>, this wouldn’t be so bad.</p><p>Sure … it would still be goddamn twisted as shit, but it would be <em>one</em> sin—<em>incest</em>—not <em>two</em> carnal sins.</p><p><em>Incest and</em> <em>gayness</em>.</p><p>At least Dean wouldn’t have made Sammy a <em>‘Faggot,’</em> and <em>‘incestuous’ </em>to boot.</p><p>But Dean has the worst suspicion that Sammy is <strong>ruined</strong> for girls, now. ‘Cause Sammy’s spent his whole damn life knowing only Dean’s boyish <em>(now mannish)</em> body while aroused and never that of a feminine touch like he should have.</p><p> And the guilt—<em>this supreme fucking guilt</em>—always comes around to crush Dean’s whole damn heart and soul <em>every</em> time he decidedly caves in— ‘Cause sometimes, Dean, can forget about <strong><em>that</em></strong> <em>ugly</em> <em>word</em> that will always linger in <em>this</em> act between them. And sometimes it hurts and twists Dean all up, when his subconscious suddenly reminds him of the <em>horrors</em> of what he’s done.</p><p>
  <em>Like right now.</em>
</p><p>Dean has to <strong>swallow</strong> his regret and his pain, ‘cause Sammy agreed to something in exchange for Dean’s compliance.</p><p>And Dean is determined to stop <strong><em>torturing</em></strong> Sammy for being who he is.</p><p>‘Cause, Sammy, can’t <em>help</em> this hankering compulsion that Dean <strong>taught</strong> him to <strong>yearn</strong> for.</p><p>Dean did this to <em>his</em> Sammy.</p><p><strong><em>Dean</em></strong> is at fault here.</p><p>And there’s no fixin’ it, <em>ever</em>.</p><p>This Summer was Dean’s <strong><em>last</em></strong> try.</p><p>“Alright, <em>Shh …</em> I gotcha, Sammy. An’ I <strong>ain’t</strong> gonna push you away no more. A promise is a promise, an’ it’s <em>done</em>. It’s over … I <em>can’t</em> fix ya, so <strong><em>this</em></strong> is what we <em>have</em>, now.”</p><p>Dean uses his hand to squeeze and tug on Sammy’s throbbing part, until Sammy arches and <em>cries</em> into his touch.</p><p>Into Dean’s <em>flesh and muscle.</em></p><p>Dean hides his face in Sammy’s neck, ‘Cause he doesn’t <em>want</em> Sammy to see that he is <em>crying</em> right now. Dean wants Sammy to feel good—<em>so damn good</em>—and Dean takes this moment of mindless rutting and bliss for, <em>Sammy,</em> to mourn all that he’s taken from Sammy.</p><p>Every last shred of Sammy’s childhood, of youth … even Sammy’s <em>‘straightness’</em> Dean bent and broke Sammy without even <em>realizing</em> he was doin’ it.</p><p>All in the name of helping Sammy <em>sleep</em> at night.</p><p>Dean swallows and clings <strong>tight</strong> to his Sammy until the explosion of seed washes down the drain and Dean can compose himself enough, again, to look Sammy in the <strong>eye</strong>.</p><p>“That feelin’ <em>better</em>, Kiddo?” Dean asks.</p><p>Sammy nods, dozily with a small smile on his face.</p><p>“Do you <em>really</em> mean it, De? You <em>really</em> gonna belong to me?” Sammy questions.</p><p>Dean feels his heart plummet and skin creep. He has to center himself, before he can form words.</p><p>And even still, his words are <em>shaky</em> as hell.</p><p>“Not … Not, <em>exclusively</em>, Sammy,” Dean clenches the hand he has braced on the bathroom wall, into a tight-fist until the knuckles crack. “Just … Just some of the time.”</p><p>Sam drops his eyes and the sting of <strong>ache</strong> that lands square in Dean’s chest is unparalleled by anything, else.</p><p>And fuck does Dean feel like an <em>asshole</em>.</p><p>“So, you’re not my … my <em>boyfriend</em>, then …”</p><p><em>Oh God …</em> <strong><em>WHAT?!</em></strong></p><p>Dean thinks his head might just <em>explode</em>, ‘cause that is way too much. Way too <strong><em>deep</em></strong> and it cuts.</p><p>It fucking makes Dean wanna bleed out.</p><p>Dean has to steady himself. Has to remind himself that Sammy is still <em>(for all extents and purposes)</em> a damn kid.</p><p>He’s <em>eleven friggin’</em> <em>years old</em> and this is the only display Dean’s seen in a long time <em>(from Sammy)</em> that has sought to remind him of that.</p><p>“Jesus! Sammy, <em>no! ‘</em>Course not … we <strong>ain’t</strong> … I’m not a—” Dean has to fight back <strong><em>that</em></strong> word that almost slipped out—<strong><em>almost.</em></strong></p><p><em>God</em>.</p><p>“Not a … <em>what</em>, Dean?” Sammy looks at him with those eyes … those <em>knowing</em> eyes and Dean wants to backtrack—<em>but doesn’t.</em></p><p>Dean just goes rigid and feels suddenly <strong><em>very</em></strong> ill.</p><p>“Look, Sammy. We’re <em>brothers</em>. Okay? We can’t just … just <strong>be</strong> boyfriends or … or <em>any</em> of this shit in public. Please … God … tell me you get how <em>warped</em> this is? At least tell me you understand <strong>that</strong> much? <em>Please …”</em> Dean pleads with his eyes and his words, trying like hell to make Sammy understand.</p><p>They’ve had this fight before <em>… sort of …</em> but Dean has never really known <em>(one way or another)</em> if Sammy actually comprehends that this is fucked to <strong>hell</strong>, or if <strong>Sammy</strong> just <em>thinks</em> that <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> <em>thinks</em> that <em>this</em> is fucked to hell because he’s <em>…</em> <em>well</em> <em>… <strong>Dean</strong>.</em></p><p>Because if Sammy doesn’t just <em>get</em> the moral wrongness of this, well—Dean doesn’t have an <em>inkling</em> of how to <strong><em>make</em></strong> him get it.</p><p>Sammy stares at Dean with his usual <em>‘Unreadable-Sammy’</em> stare that <em>always</em> sends Dean for a loop.</p><p>Then says, <em>“I know, Dean. I just …”</em> Sammy blushes and squirms which causes Dean to offhandedly realize that he is friggin’ erect right now against Sammy’s spent pecker, “I didn’t mean it like holding hands and making out in public. I meant in <strong><em>here</em></strong> <em>…”</em> Sammy puts one of his fists over his heart, “between <strong>us</strong>, in our <em>hearts</em>. We aren’t boyfriends … we can <strong>never</strong> be … be <strong><em>this</em></strong> just to <em>us</em> … in secret? <em>Private?”</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t know how to react to what Sammy is <strong>saying</strong> right now.</p><p>Hell, Dean, doesn’t even know how he <strong><em>feels</em></strong> about Sammy asking this, right now.</p><p>It sure as hell ain’t good, though.</p><p>“No, Sammy … I … I <em>can’t …”</em> Dean feels his mouth going dry, despite the continuous stream of water raining down on them.</p><p>Sammy’s face drops, and his little <em>fist</em> along with it.</p><p>“It’s just … you made me <em>promise</em> I could never … never <strong>date</strong> anyone … if you … if <em>we,”</em> Sammy swallows. “So, I’ll never <strong><em>have</em></strong> that … a <strong>boyfriend</strong> … or relationship outside of … outside of <strong>you</strong>, De,”</p><p>Sammy looks so <em>small</em> right now.</p><p>So, <strong><em>damned</em></strong>, small.</p><p>And sullen—and <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> did this to him.</p><p>Dean always fucking wrecks <strong><em>everyone</em></strong> else, no matter what he tries to go and do!</p><p>Dean thinks his heart just shattered … like it might just have died. <em>Right here. </em></p><p>Right when Sammy looked at him and said the words that keep Dean <strong><em>up</em></strong> at night.</p><p>The fear that Sammy will <strong><em>only</em></strong> ever know <em>this</em>.</p><p>Dean uses a hand to stroke along Sammy’s belly, up his chest, to finish at Sammy’s cheek.</p><p>Sammy shivers at the physical contact—<em>like always.</em></p><p>And Dean swallows around a lump of fought-back tears.</p><p><em>“Sammy,”</em> Dean whispers and has to take a moment to collect himself before he can carry on talking. “I never said you couldn’t <em>date</em>. I just—” Dean hates himself even as he thinks about his next words, because he doesn’t’ <strong>want</strong> to shatter Sammy’s bubble when it’s barely begun to form, but he has to. “I want you to have something that’s <em>natural</em> if you date. For starters, a <strong><em>girlfriend</em></strong>, Sammy.”</p><p>Dean’s belly roars when he sees the hurt look Sammy flashes him.</p><p>“It ain’t <strong><em>right</em></strong> to want a man inside you. To want to be <em>bent</em> over …” Dean has to steel himself against referring to his brother as a <em>‘Bitch’</em> right now.</p><p>Sure, they’ve started playing <em>that</em> game, lately. When Sam gets <em>extra</em> moody.</p><p>
  <em>‘Bitch-Jerk. Smiles-and-laughs.’</em>
</p><p>But it’s not … not something Dean uses when they’re like <strong><em>this</em></strong>.</p><p>Never when Sam <strong>asks</strong> him for … for <strong><em>that</em></strong><em> …</em></p><p>So, Dean, finds another way to get his point across.</p><p>“Doesn’t your <em>part</em> ache to be inside someone?” Dean squeezes Sammy’s flaccidness for emphasis. “It’s only <em>natural</em> to want that. And you can’t have that, not … not if you <strong><em>only</em></strong> have me.”</p><p>Sam gets this look on his face and it can’t mean anything <em>good</em>.</p><p>Dean should have left well enough <em>alone …</em></p><p>“I <em>do</em> want that, De. I want to try it with <em>you</em>. Why shouldn’t it be okay if I do it with <strong>you</strong>?”</p><p>Dean almost <strong>drops</strong> Sam—<em>almost let Sam go</em>—and he has to put Sammy down, before he <em>literally</em> friggin’ drops him!</p><p>Sammy stands on his own two legs and stares up at Dean. Even just <em>saying</em> those words, <em>apparently</em>, has Sammy hard, <strong><em>again</em></strong>.</p><p>Sam’s little pecker is erect and protruding out from between his thighs, like a <em>beacon</em> at Dean.</p><p>For some reason, Dean, never <em>once</em> thought about Sammy possibly wanting to be inside of <strong><em>him</em></strong>. Dean doesn’t even know <em>why</em> the thought never occurred to him <em>(that Sammy could want <strong>that</strong>)</em> but it just never has, for <em>some</em> reason …</p><p><em>“<strong>No</strong>!” </em>Dean can see the immediate rejection—<em>the hurt</em>—in Sammy’s eyes and Dean understands it—<em>he does</em>—but can’t give Sammy that.</p><p><strong><em>Never</em></strong> <em>that … </em></p><p>And the reasons why are <em>complex</em> and really fucking <strong>simple</strong> all at the same time.</p><p>But just the thought … the thought of <em>his</em> Sammy on top of him … <strong><em>inside</em></strong> of him …</p><p>It has Dean in a new wave of onsetting panic!</p><p>It’s <strong>fear</strong>—<em>it’s repulsion</em>—and it’s <em>too</em> much!</p><p>
  <em>Way, too, friggin’ much!</em>
</p><p>“Why not, Dean? You said you’d give me <em>this</em> … What I <strong>need</strong> and I … I <em>want</em>—I <em>need</em> that, too.”</p><p>Dean steps back and <em>out</em> of the shower. Dripping water onto the bathroom tile.</p><p>With his dark-green eyes fixated on Sammy’s tiny, engorged <em>need</em>.</p><p>It wouldn’t hurt, Dean, <em>physically</em>.</p><p>Dad is bigger than Dean by a mile and <em>still</em> somehow manages to cram his way up inside of Dean whenever the need strikes, but … but it’s the <em>meaning</em> of the thing, to Dean.</p><p>Dad has rammed home in Dean that if a man lays under another—that makes him that other man’s <em>bitch</em>. His <em>property</em>—and somehow <strong><em>lesser</em></strong> than the man on top.</p><p>And … And Sammy <strong><em>is</em></strong> Dean’s little brother.</p><p>So, it’s not so bad when <em>Sammy</em> does it. But … But Dean has already sunken so <em>low</em> in this life.</p><p>
  <em>So, friggin’ low.</em>
</p><p>And he’s had so many countless men hold him down and <strong><em>take</em></strong> until he’s sore and broken and wants it to <strong>stop</strong>, that he can’t bear to think of <em>Sammy</em> on top of him, too.</p><p>Pushing and taking from him like every <strong><em>other</em></strong> man has <strong><em>taken</em></strong> from Dean.</p><p>It would <strong>break</strong> whatever strength Dean still has.</p><p>He can’t be his little brother’s, <em>bitch</em>, too.</p><p>
  <em>Not, sweet, innocent, Sammy …</em>
</p><p>Dean can’t <em>bear</em> the roughness of Sammy’s need—of knowing how it would <strong>feel</strong> to lay under Sammy as he ruts and takes.</p><p>Just thinking about it, sets Dean on <strong>edge</strong>.</p><p>‘Cause … what if Dean denies him and denies him and one day Sammy gets <strong><em>big</em></strong> enough to hold Dean down and <strong><em>takes</em></strong> after years of being denied? <em>Then, what?</em></p><p>Dean can’t stop these thoughts from clawing around in his skull, now.</p><p>Now, that he <em>knows</em> Sammy thinks about it … thinks about <strong>being</strong> on top?</p><p>God! Why did Dean have to <strong><em>open</em></strong> this can of worms? Why couldn’t he have just <strong>agreed</strong> to be Sammy’s boyfriend and be <em>done</em> with it?</p><p>God! He’s so fucking <strong>stupid</strong>!</p><p>
  <em>So, <strong>SO</strong>, fucking <strong>STUPID</strong>!</em>
</p><p>Sammy is suddenly knelt in front of him with a tearful look in his eyes. Pleading with Dean to come back.</p><p><em>“Dean! De!?”</em> Sammy shrieks and Dean realizes his fingers are holding his razorblade and he’s slashed a streak down his right side.</p><p>When did he reach for the <em>razorblade</em> on the sink?</p><p>Dean can’t <strong>remember</strong> doing it.</p><p>But, Dean’s, go-to whenever he feels like <em>this</em> inside is to mark up his flesh … to make himself <strong>untouchable</strong> … It doesn’t <em>work</em>.</p><p>It’s <strong><em>never</em></strong> friggin’ worked …</p><p>But he still <em>tries</em>, anyway.</p><p>‘Cause if it <strong>did</strong> work, then Dad wouldn’t <em>want</em> to touch him. And neither would <strong>anyone</strong> else. But they <em>do …</em> so many hands have groped, fucked, <em>raped</em> his scarred-up flesh—raped his soul’s <strong><em>home</em></strong> until he doesn’t want to <em>live</em> in here anymore—<em>that he knows it can’t possibly work.</em></p><p>‘Cause of the <em>curse</em>.</p><p>This damn <em>‘Winchester-born’ </em>curse …</p><p>But it was his <em>only</em> defense. Because Sammy was erect and looking at him like he was here for the taking … <em>like</em> … like he wanted it, <em>right now ….</em></p><p>And Dean can’t wrap his mind around Sammy wanting <strong>inside</strong> of <strong><em>him</em></strong>.</p><p>Like he’s prime real-estate <strong><em>fit</em></strong> for the taking and <em>marking</em> …</p><p>Suddenly—<em>and without warning</em>—Sammy wrenches the razor blade from Dean’s hand.</p><p>And Dean witnesses Sammy cut his hand on it. <em>Sees</em> the blood that pools at Sammy’s palm. But Sammy doesn’t seem to <strong>care</strong>—<em>or notice</em>—because Sammy has thrown the thing away.</p><p>Back toward the <em>(still running) </em>shower with a resounding <em>‘clatter,’</em> that fills the bathroom.</p><p>And, Sammy, has this <strong><em>look</em></strong> on his face that is all brimstone and <em>‘Sammy-fire’</em> that Dean has <strong>always</strong> loved in Sammy—<em>and just like that</em>—Sam is kissing the thin, bleeding gash across Dean’s side and belly <em>(it ends near Dean’s belly button)</em> and it’s this hot and needy action—<em>and this kiss is broiling Dean alive.</em></p><p><em>Inside</em>, to the <strong>out</strong>.</p><p>Sammy laps up Dean’s <em>spilled</em> blood with his little pink tongue. Swipes the wet muscle, over the beady traces of water and crimson, iron-tasting, life-essence, until Sam’s mouth is smeared with it <em>(like some kind of friggin’ vampire or something)</em> and draws back up to glance at Dean.</p><p>Their eyes <strong><em>touch</em></strong>—<em>meet</em>—<em>swarm</em>—and Dean just <strong>stares</strong> at Sammy.</p><p>Captivated by the smears of <strong><em>his</em></strong> blood on Sammy’s pout—and the way Sammy is confused and <em>(still throbby and hard between his thighs)</em> still looking at Dean like he <strong>loves</strong> him. <em>Despite,</em> this most recent rejection and breakdown, <em>combination</em>.</p><p>And Dean just finds himself <strong>speechless</strong>—and half-ready to <em>run the</em> <em>hell outta here</em>, at the same time.</p><p>Then, Sammy, kisses Dean. Full-on the mouth.</p><p>And it’s tight and rough and <em>pure</em> Sammy.</p><p>And Dean can’t help but moan and whimper like a <em>little boy</em>, as Sammy straddles his lap and grinds—<em>hard</em>—against Dean’s <em>(surprisingly still rigid and needy) </em>cock.</p><p><em>“S-Shit!”</em> Dean whines and latches on to Sammy like he’s a life raft and they are drifting in the ocean, alone.</p><p>And they might <em>as-freakin’-well</em> be, because Dean’s mind is <strong><em>so</em></strong> fragile—<em>so close to coming all the rest of the way apart</em>—that he feels like even this viciously-pleasant sensation might actually <strong>obliterate</strong> him down to threads and ribbons!</p><p>“You don’t <em>get</em> to check-out on me, Dean! You’re <strong><em>mine</em></strong>, forever! You <strong><em>promised</em></strong> me! You promised no more <strong>rejections</strong>! No more <em>denials</em>! Just <strong>us</strong>! Just <strong>this</strong>!” Sammy ruts forward and their upthrust <em>needs</em> rub together in the most glorious, <em>friction-y</em> way.</p><p>Dean purrs like a kitten and is almost distracted enough to <strong>forget</strong> why this panic started—<em>almost!</em></p><p>“N-Not that, Sammy. Please … you <em>can’t</em> ask me to do that … to … to give you <em>that</em> … Just. It’s the <em>one</em> thing … the <strong><em>only</em></strong> thing … Sammy I just … <em>I can’t!”</em></p><p>Dean knows that he is <strong>babbling</strong> and not making any freakin’ sense, but Sammy is <em>riding</em> him like he’s a damn horse—<em>and his mind is swirly and hazy-thick with the proof of it.</em></p><p>And this is <em>all</em> mixed up in Dean.</p><p>“Why not? Why are <strong><em>you</em></strong> allowed to have me, completely, but you fuckin’ <strong>mutilate</strong> yourself when I ask the <em>same</em> from you?”</p><p>Sammy is in tears—<em>Oh God!</em></p><p>“Sammy …” Dean sniffles, ‘Cause it’s <strong>pointless</strong> to fight back his own tears by this point.</p><p>“I wanna know, <em>why!”</em> Sammy is kissing Dean, now. Everywhere—<em>sporadically</em>.</p><p>Snaking kisses, using his tongue. Making Dean <strong>ache</strong> and his balls <em>squeeze</em>.</p><p>And Dean finally can’t take any<strong> more</strong> of this need and hurt!</p><p>Dean tackles Sammy. Pins him to the bathroom tile and kisses at Sammy’s bloodied palm, lapping at Sammy’s blood and taking it down, little by little as it pools and <em>comes</em>.</p><p>Then, reunites his bloodied lips with Sammy’s. And drives the bulk of his arousal down into Sammy’s smaller package.</p><p>Without anything but blind need, Dean, pushes up Sammy’s thighs, until he’s presented and ready for the taking—<em>and takes.</em> Pushing himself <em>deep</em> into Sammy’s rear passage, until his younger-brother squeals and eyes roll back.</p><p>“Cause <em>you’re</em> the little brother!” Dean hisses in response. Unable to tell Sammy the <strong>truth</strong>—<em>that it would break something in him to do it.</em></p><p>Sam can only grunt and keen as Dean pulls out and thrusts right back in, forcefully. Dean wants Sammy to <em>feel</em> him—<em>everywhere</em>—to drive this construct home.</p><p>“An’ I’m bigger an’ <em>stronger</em> an’ I take <em>care</em> of you, Sammy!” Dean continues to thrust, between words. Kissing and sharing bits of his soul with <em>his</em> Sammy.</p><p>“And ‘cause, you already ask for <strong>way</strong> more than anyone <span class="u">ever</span> should of his big brother. An’ if you want me <em>not</em> to check-out, you <em>will</em> drop this, <em>forever</em>. For <strong>me</strong>, Sammy. Or else, I <em>will</em> leave. I’ll break <strong><em>every</em></strong> promise I <em>ever</em> made you and … an’ I’ll <em>disappear</em>. And you <em>won’t</em> find me, Sammy. You’ll <em>never</em> find me … I’ll just be <strong>gone</strong> … an’ that’ll be the end of <strong><em>all</em></strong> of <em>this …”</em></p><p>Dean sees the fire of wonder flicker <em>out</em> in Sammy’s eyes.</p><p>When Dean threatens to leave—<em>then, it’s all over.</em></p><p>Sammy would <em>never</em> want to live in a world without Dean—<em>and Dean knows it.</em></p><p>Dean wants Sammy to <strong>understand</strong> how <em>deep</em> this pit of agony runs in him—so Sammy will comprehend how <strong>much</strong> this means.</p><p>How badly Dean <em>needs</em> Sammy to give in on <em>this</em> front.</p><p>If the <em>‘checked-out-cutting’</em> wasn’t tell enough for, Sam, then maybe Dean threatening to back out on his promise to <strong><em>always</em></strong> be here—<em>would break through.</em></p><p>
  <em>And it does.</em>
</p><p>Sammy goes real quiet. Then, nods his head.</p><p>Dean stops his powerful thrusts and they are still—<em>quiet and staring at each other</em>—for a moment.</p><p>“F-Fine, De … Just … just <strong><em>fine</em></strong> …” Sammy whispers and that <em>is</em> the end of it.</p><p>Dean feels his heart lift a little—<em>and the weight eases</em>—allowing Dean to once again <em>breathe</em> a little easier.</p><p>And for right now, as Dean finds <strong><em>home</em></strong> in Sammy—<em>and loses himself to the pleasure (the taste of Sammy-blood) and take</em>—Dean realizes that Sammy is once more, his sole safe place.</p><p>Dean’s <strong><em>only</em></strong> safe place in this whole messed-up goddamned world.</p><p>And now, they’re in <strong><em>this</em></strong> thing, for good.</p><p>
  <em>No turnin’ back.</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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    <b>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</b>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. part 8; time like the tide of waves.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <i>Dean navigates through what it means to be in a 'relationship' with Sammy, while dealing with other setbacks.<br/>Dean is 14-21.<br/>Sam is 11-18.<br/></i>
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          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>Hello Lovelies!<br/>This chapter took me nearly two weeks to complete and it is a little longer than my last few updates (so bonus!!!!) but it covers a lot of ground in a short span of time!<br/>We are almost through their younger years guys, so hold on! It's gonna get worse before it gets better! (Then again it's Sam and Dean we are talking about here so I suppose 'better' is all relative here!)<br/>Also, this is a fully Dean-centric installment!<br/>Anyways, ENJOY!<br/>Have those tissues ready.</i>
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  <strong> <em>part 8; time like the tide of waves.</em> </strong>
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    <em>where there is love</em>
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  <p>
    <em>there is pain.</em>
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  <em>xxii. ease of patterns.</em>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean <em>wants</em> to blame it <strong>all</strong> on the heat of Summer and the majority of their time being spent in the <em>ever-<strong>hot</strong></em>, South, that year.</p><p>That morning spent with promises, blood-soaked kisses, and the verge of breakdowns started it <strong>all</strong>.</p><p>And by—<em>it all</em>—Dean means this salaciously warped-ass <em>‘relationship’ (of sorts) </em>that sparked up between Dean and <em>his,</em> Sammy, <em>after</em> that.</p><p> School started up again, soon after Dean caved and made those promises to Sammy, and the year that followed was spent in a maneuver of so many different responsibilities that Dean’s head damn-near, <strong>spun</strong>.</p><p>Dean is responsible for Sammy, like <em>always</em>, but also for more and more hunts with Dad.</p><p>Dad would pull Dean away for periods of time <em>(a week here, two weeks there) </em>which would leave Sammy in a motel room to fend for himself.</p><p>Dean wouldn’t always have <em>warning</em> before Dad rolled in to sweep him up and off, but he’d give Sammy a kiss<em> (if he could spare a private second) </em>and a hug, and promise to make it up to him, <em>somehow</em>.</p><p>Of course, leaving Sam on his own for a week or two at a time, almost <em>always</em> assured that Dean would come back to a riled-up, <em>horny, pre-teen, </em>Sammy, that would latch and <em>monkey-cling</em> to him for that whole damn night—Like Sammy thought he might just up and disappear or something.</p><p>While, Dean, on the other hand, would spend his one-on-one time with Dad. Oftentimes, clear across the states from, Sammy, in a <em>shared</em> motel room.</p><p>And, free time with Dad always meant sharing Dad’s bed at night and succumbing to all those shameful things that came with it. The shared quarters and sinful proclivities were bad enough on their own, but worse when Dad drank.</p><p>Sometimes, it meant <em>punishments</em>. Denials of orgasms, belts to the ass, or outright <em>rough-hard</em> sex. And always meant Dean would be name-called, <em>‘slut,’ ‘faggot,’ ‘cheap-whore,’ ‘bitch,’</em> <em>…</em> <em>the list goes on.</em></p><p>Others, Dad, was <em>generous</em> about the pleasures he gave—and others still, Dad, wouldn’t give Dean a <em>lick</em> of pleasure from the encounter, but drill what Dean is—<em>was</em>—home with those spiteful, <em>harsh</em> words.  </p><p>It all depended <em>primarily</em> on Dad’s mood and whether he thought Dean was withholding something from him.</p><p>And Dean <em>does</em> lie to Dad—or omit details about Sammy and him, and the <em>nature</em> of their brotherhood.</p><p>
  <em>All to protect, Sammy.</em>
</p><p>Dean has had no other choice on that front.</p><p>Dad would outright <strong>kill</strong> Sammy if he ever thought for one <em>second</em> that Sammy was a straight-shot <em>‘Faggot.’</em></p><p>The only reason Dad let’s Dean keep breathing is that he knows, Dean, isn’t <em>pure</em> homosexual. He’s something altogether <strong><em>different</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean honestly doesn’t know <em>what</em> he is, but he often goes over it all in his head.</p><p>Especially late at night when <em>sleep</em> won’t come.</p><p>Dean <strong><em>loves</em></strong> Sammy. Loves being with Sammy <em>(even though he tries to tell himself otherwise) </em>and kissing Sammy. Hell, Dean, even liked <em>Dad’s</em> touch for a time—when it was gentler and he was less attuned to Dad’s <em>reasons</em> for liking Dean <strong>underneath</strong> him …</p><p>But is he a straight-up, <em>‘faggot?</em>’</p><p>Dean doesn’t <strong>think</strong> so. He <em>likes</em> the touch of girls. Their warm skin—<em>their kisses</em>—and being <strong>with</strong> them.</p><p>Dean’s never <em>loved</em> a girl … but he’s never gonna let himself get close enough to love <strong>anyone</strong> <em>(except Sammy)</em> period.</p><p>Can’t <strong>chance</strong> it.</p><p>Not with the sorta life he is set to lead.</p><p>School has gotten more difficult for Dean—what, with moving from place to place. Spending whole <em>weeks</em> focused solely on hunts with, Dad, and downtime with Sammy?</p><p>Dean has been especially lucky if he gets even a <em>partial</em> amount of his assignments completed and turned in.</p><p>Hell, he’s narrowly passed each grade since, <em>Middle School.</em></p><p>He’s come damn close to being held back on more than one occasion and it’s not like Dad gives a damn, so why should Dean?</p><p>There is one class that Dean looks forward, too, though—the only <em>enjoyable</em> class.</p><p>
  <em>Auto Shop.</em>
</p><p>When it comes down to fixin’ up <em>‘hunks-of-junk,’</em> Dean, is inarguably the best around. And most definitely the best in his class, and he always passes it with flying colors.</p><p>Dean’s favorite downtime with Dad comes about when they work on the Impala, together. It’s the only time<em> (aside from hunting) </em>that Dad doesn’t eye Dean with this distrustful gaze, like he does the rest of the time they spend together.</p><p>Dad is always primed to accuse Dean of trying to rile and seduce him—which Dean doesn’t actively do very much anymore.</p><p>No, fixing-up cars is the one place Dean shines, <em>unequivocally</em>.</p><p>But downtime with Dad <strong><em>is</em></strong> rare for, Dean.</p><p>Downtime of <strong><em>any</em></strong> sort, really.</p><p>‘Cause, whenever he’s off with Dad it’s all <em>‘Family Business’</em> and <em>‘hunting things,’</em> which leaves little time to fix-up the Impala, unless she’s actively taken-on damage that is.</p><p>Oftentimes, Dean, wrestles with this constant internal pressure which stems from knowing just how <em>badly</em> he fucked-up, Sammy.</p><p>And that knowledge has left <strong>quite</strong> the mark in Dean—<em>and on, Dean.</em></p><p>Most of Dean’s days are spent poppin’ pills and drinking excessive quantities of booze to tamp down those ‘<em>bad,’</em> thoughts.</p><p>Sammy gives Dean these <em>hard, ‘I-know-you’re -hiding-something,’ stares</em> whenever he catches Dean in the act. But Dean shies from them—pretends he doesn’t understand why Sammy’s giving him those looks and goes about his day.</p><p>Dean knows that Sammy still hurts himself on occasion, too. And, hell, if Dean doesn’t feel like it’s his own damn fault <em>(every friggin’ time)</em> seen as it usually happens when Dad swoops Dean away without warning.</p><p>Dean’s told Sammy that he’d stay <em>(at all times)</em> if he could, but angering Dad is not something either of them can chance and Sammy grumbles his agreement, then promises not to do nothing to himself, so Dean leaves.</p><p>But, Dean, <em>always</em> returns to fresh scars somewhere on Sammy’s skin, and a night of tear-filled clings from Sammy.</p><p>And, Dean, is always left feeling like <em>shit</em>.</p><p>Dad gifted Dean his first, fake ID, when he was a little over fifteen and looked relatively old enough to use it to hustle pool in the bars.</p><p>On the following night, <em>(after Dean returns to a marked-up Sammy) </em>Dean will head out to hustle pool, alone, and start seeking out an interested <em>(much-older) </em>man that he can wind up underneath for cash.</p><p>The money that comes with it, Dean, puts towards Sammy’s welfare, and the worthlessness Dean experiences in the aftermath, Dean, considers a fit punishment for every scar and bruise Sammy put on himself in his absence.</p><p>Every explicit and depraved memory of those acts, go into a little box of horror in Dean’s mind. Off to a place where, Dean, likes to pretend they <strong><em>don’t</em></strong> exist, when he’s around Sammy. But will open when he’s back on the road with, Dad, as a heavy reminder of how much being apart from Sammy is hurting Sammy.</p><p>But the worst part comes in the <em>tawdry</em> aftermath. Where Dean is leaking into his boxers with a stranger’s seed, inside of him. Dean can’t think about why he always gets hard when a man fucks him—<em>why he can’t stop his moans from it …</em></p><p>Dean used to think it was from his body’s nervousness <em>(anxiety)</em> from being pinned under a man, but now he’s not so sure.</p><p>And that fucks, Dean, up the most.</p><p>The <strong>filth</strong>, Dean, feels crawling around inside, afterward … <em>it’s downright toxic.</em></p><p>Still, Dean, doesn’t have the luxury of staying in a million little pieces. No. He always has to piece himself back together under the red-hot shower stream, good enough, so that he can climb back into bed next to Sammy later on that night.</p><p>Which is always less than an <em>hour</em> after the deed is done and the money <em>(caked with taint)</em> is burning a hole in Dean’s pocket.</p><p>Some, new, scabbed-over <em>cut</em> will be sliced into his skin with his razorblade and Sammy will notice and kiss it and give him one of those <em>‘all-knowing-Sammy,’ </em>looks that makes Dean rile with a combination of guilt and shame.</p><p>But Dean won’t—<em>can’t</em>—talk about it.</p><p>Not about <strong><em>any</em></strong> of it.</p><p>And that will <strong>always</strong> serve to be Dean’s deepest shame of all.</p><p>Keeping his guilt—<em>and his self-disgust</em>—from Sammy.</p><p>Then, there are the nights, Dean, heads out with a chick from whatever high school he is currently attending. After several rounds of rough-hard, fucking that leaves him <em>empty</em> and feeling <strong>gross</strong>, Dean, will come back to their shitty motel to find an impatient and riled-up, Sammy, waiting up for him on their mattress.</p><p>Oftentimes, Sam, will have one of his hands down his boxers, and an irritated look in his eye, by the time Dean joins him.</p><p>Those nights, Sammy, is always <em>extra</em> needy and expectant of Dean. Dean knows it is a manifestation <em>(of sorts)</em> showcasing Sammy’s jealousy, which makes Dean feel like even <em>worse</em> shit than the nights Dean is with men.</p><p>But, Dean, always just tucks in close—<em>skin to skin</em>—whispers to Sammy that it’s what <strong><em>he</em></strong><em> ‘needs,’ </em>to be okay. Sammy always fusses, <em>(like back when Sammy was little)</em> thrusts his leaky-part to Dean’s belly—and begs, hot and sure against Dean’s ear.</p><p>And sure enough, Dean, always friggin’ caves.</p><p>
  <em>Always.</em>
</p><p>It’s been three years, since this <em>thing</em> became steady, between them and even though Dean doesn’t like to admit it <em>(‘cause he wants Sammy to stay his ‘little’ brother forever)</em> he has started to notice that Sammy is growing.</p><p>Dean knows that he, himself, is nearly finished with his own sprouting. He is seventeen, now. Has muscles and bulk in all the right places, and is skirting on the brink of six feet tall.</p><p>But <em>(despite Sammy’s growth)</em> Sammy is all gangly arms and legs—<em>and wiry as hell.</em></p><p>Sammy <em>(last Dean measured him)</em> is almost five-foot-seven and he’s <em>only</em> fourteen. Which means, he’s still got a good <em>four years</em> left to sprout up on Dean’s six-feet, and that sorta tugs on Dean’s pride a bit, <em>(that Sammy could someday outreach him)</em> and gives him pause, at times.</p><p>Even, Sammy’s, fight-techniques have drastically improved these last couple years. Sammy can sometimes pin, Dean, now in their sparring sessions. Despite, still being shorter, Sammy, seems to grasp where to put pressure, <em>(and it sure doesn’t help that Sammy also knows all of Dean’s weakest points from prior hunt-related injuries and Dad’s punishments)</em> to bring Dean tumbling down at the head.</p><p>Dad, however, seemed proud of, Sammy’s improvement, last, they showed off their techniques to him.</p><p>Which was a little over two months, or so ago, now.</p><p>The older Sammy gets the more attached he seems to become to this secret relationship-type-thing, they’ve got, going on between them. The novelty has never worn off for, Sammy, like Dean once hoped it might.</p><p>Dean still had narrow hope that Sammy <em>might</em> find some interest in girls when he hit, <em>Middle-School-age,</em> but Sam hasn’t.</p><p>Over the course of these past three years that, Dean, has allowed Sammy as far in as he can—Sammy chooses to spend every waking second, possible, stuck-like-glue to Dean’s hip.</p><p>Even when Sam is focused on his homework or has to study for an upcoming quiz <em>(if Dean isn’t off with some chick, Dad, or hustling pool)</em> Sam is nuzzled up at Dean’s side, scribbling away at it.</p><p>Dean, completely gave up on trying to cling on to any and all of the boundaries he previously set-up with Sammy in the years that he <em>actively</em> fought against Sammy’s closeness to him.</p><p>Sam is back to following, Dean, into the bathroom when Dean comes home to take a shower. Sammy will plop himself on the toilet seat lid and read, <em>(unless he wants to join in) </em>and Dean has learned to count on Sammy being there and see it as a comforting gesture, rather than creepy <em>(or annoying)</em> like he once did.</p><p>Because, once again, Sammy, follows him into the bathroom even when he has to take a shit, or brush his teeth—<em>Sammy is <strong>just</strong> there.</em></p><p>Hovering—<em>sharing in the space.</em></p><p>It ain’t right, but Dean has no recourse … ‘cause he promised Sammy that <em>this</em> is how things would be.</p><p>Simple … Easy … And that he would give Sammy whatever he could of himself—<em>and that meant his privacy, too.</em></p><p>And it isn’t really so much Sammy’s actions that scare Dean anymore—<em>it’s his own.</em></p><p>Dean has started to actually allow himself to enjoy it--the <em>nearness</em> of <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy.</p><p>It makes Dean <strong><em>feel</em></strong> things—and has also strengthened Dean’s possessiveness of Sammy. And that possessiveness only spreads and deepens <strong>every</strong> time that Sammy shows how much he truly needs, Dean, like that.</p><p>Every time Sammy shows how much he needs Dean as his protector—as more than just his big brother, but his <strong><em>everything</em></strong> …</p><p>It’s all <em>kinds</em> of fucked-up, <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>And usually leads to homework being shoved into a forgotten heap on the motel carpet, with Sammy astride Dean’s lap, like some sorta underfed <strong><em>incubus</em></strong> that just can’t get enough to <strong>ever</strong> be full.</p><p>And it always leads to love bites, shed clothes, with an abundance of taken and given pleasure, between them.</p><p>But with the <em>(usually)</em> unspoken promise between them that, Dean, is <strong><em>always</em></strong> on top.</p><p>Sometimes, when they wind up in the hot and thick of it that little promise does come up in the form of a <strong>question</strong>.</p><p>It usually comes out panty and needy like: <em>‘Dean can I try it just this once?’</em> and Dean doesn’t have to ask what Sammy means by <em>‘it,’</em> because he goddamn knows—<em>but wishes he didn’t.</em></p><p>It doesn’t freak Dean out like it did that first time it came up, but it still binds his stomach in a twist, when Dean thinks about <em>Sammy</em> being the one on <strong>top</strong>.</p><p>Dean long-since, given up on the idle threat to <em>abandon</em> Sammy for bringing it up … but, deep-down, Dean, still fears the eventual outcome of rejecting Sammy without a good reason, (or really much of a reason at all except: <em>‘cause I said so’)</em> over and over.</p><p>Still, Dean, has <strong>no</strong> choice.</p><p>His body openly screams in rejection whenever he thinks about Sammy on top. And hours and hours of soul-searching has brought Dean to the conclusion that his body and soul rejects the idea of a <em>‘dominant,’ </em>Sammy, for more than just the reason that Dad told him a man underneath another is a <em>‘bitch,’</em> but also because Dean has known only physical and verbal abuse underneath other men.</p><p>Not that, Dean, thinks for a <em>second</em>, that <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy is even remotely capable of spouting abuse or making Dean hurt—<em>cause he’s not.</em></p><p>Sammy would <strong>never</strong> do that.</p><p>But the <em>fear</em>—the doubt that would creep and crawl in Dean’s veins while Sammy was on top …? Well, it would send Dean into a full-blown, <strong>panic</strong> <strong>attack</strong>, that he fears he might not come back from.</p><p>Dean fears that his mind might just break.</p><p><em>Completely</em>.</p><p>So, Dean, uses easeful touch, and smarmy kisses to soothe the burn of rejection in the moment.</p><p>
  <em>(Sammy, is always in the heat of the moment when he asks—when he outright <strong>begs</strong>—and his throbby-need is always drooling slick and solid as a rock, raring and pleading for Dean to just please grant permission <strong>this</strong> time.)</em>
</p><p>And, afterward, when Sammy is pouty for the next day or so, Dean, takes him out in the Impala for ice cream, or to a drive-in to watch a movie.</p><p>‘Cause, Dean, feels like complete shit for having to turn Sammy down without a <strong>valid</strong> explanation.</p><p>When, Dean, turned sixteen and scored his license, Dad, took the opportunity to extend, Dean, a little more trust, when it comes to the family car—<em>Dad’s beloved Impala</em>—and has been leaving it with Dean more and more for emergencies.</p><p>Usually, only if Dad plans to be gone for a longish period of time.</p><p>Like <em>this</em> time, for example.</p><p>Dad is off in Colorado hunting down a potential werewolf, picking off young, blondes. While Dean and Sam are in, Southern California, along the coast.</p><p>Sam has been moodier these last couple of weeks,<em> (Dean assumes) </em>with all these normal, damn teenage hormones. And Sammy’s been much less keen on all the moving around, Dad, puts them through. Riding on Dad’s nerves about changing schools, too, often and the like.</p><p>So, Dad, <em>(fed-up with Sam and finished with the case in this town</em>) left them both behind, and, Dean, with the keys to the Impala. With the understanding that they finish out the school year, then head on out to Bobby’s and wait for Dad to come get them.</p><p>Today, was their <em>last</em> day.</p><p>This moodiness of Sammy’s hasn’t just been geared towards, Dad, however. Oh, no. Dad has been gone for all these weeks and Sammy has kept the attitude. The sass and eyerolls—<em>the lash-outs and frustration</em>—all the fun stuff.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know if this sorta behavior even is down to teenage hormones, or just Sammy growing up, but it has sought to leave Dean on edge, a lot, ‘cause of these flip-floppy moods of Sammy’s.</p><p>Hell, Dean, first noticed Sammy’s attitude changing a few weeks back, soon after the last time Dean rejected Sammy’s bid to be on top, which Dean has thought might be a contributing factor, but Dean hasn’t brought it up.</p><p>Dean took Sammy to the drive-in <em>(as usual)</em> and it seemed to cheer him up, a bit, but then the attitude returned—<em>with a vengeance.</em> Sammy hasn’t even wanted to be touched in weeks <em>(which is goddamn strange, too) </em>but Dean has been writing it off as a <em>‘teenage phase,’</em> and praying to God that Sammy might be coming around to wanting something normal, after all.</p><p>But, Dean, is becoming less and less convinced that that is what is going on, by the day.</p><p><em>“It’s, too, hot, Deeeee!” </em>Sammy groans out in this long, whiny noise that is supposed to be Dean’s name, but just resembles, like, a really-long whine to Dean’s half-cocked ears.</p><p>Dean is currently situated on this lumpy, motel sofa, that looks and feels like sitting on cardboard, while stress-cleaning his gun and blade. <em>(He’s already wiped down his Colt fifteen times, and his blade fourteen, in the last hour.)</em></p><p>Sweat is dripping down Dean’s forehead and keeps getting in his eyes, and he has to keep wiping it away. Dean wipes his sweat for what must be the tenth time, with a swipe of his arm, then, half-grunts, half-sighs in response.</p><p>Sam has been especially whiny and irritable since Dean woke him up this morning, and it’s pressing on Dean’s <strong><em>last</em></strong> nerve.</p><p>Pretty soon, Dean, is gonna <strong>explode</strong>. And it <em>ain’t</em> gonna be pretty.</p><p>First, Sam, whined about waking up for school … Then, it was what Dean gave him for breakfast <em>(Cheerio’s, it’s all they goddamn have, ‘cause Dean hasn’t had the chance to go grocery shopping in a couple days!)</em> Sam even whined on the drive to school, cause the AC went out a few days back and Dean doesn’t have enough cash for the parts to fix it and put food on the table.</p><p>
  <em>(And Dean will be goddamned if he is driving all the way to Bobby’s with Sam in the Impala with a broken air conditioner, when Sam is like this! There’s not a chance in hell they are leaving without fixing it! Which also means, Dad, is gonna be pissed as hell for the delay, and Dean is gonna have that, too, taken out on him by Dad. Dean winces at the prospect of what kinda hell Dad is gonna give him for this!)</em>
</p><p>Dean realizes that it also means he is gonna have to go out tonight and <em>‘Turn-Tricks’</em> for the additional cash needed to fix the AC, because hustling pool just ain’t gonna cut it.</p><p>Which, Dean, is not-at-all looking forward to, ‘cause his ass is <em>still</em> smarting from two nights back, when his last conquest got rough as hell with him.</p><p>Sammy hasn’t been following, Dean, into the bathroom these last few weeks, so, Sammy, hasn’t seen the stress cuts Dean has been making on himself <em>(and Dean has had the privacy needed to make them, too)</em> which is the only blessing to come of Sammy and his moods.</p><p>And, now … <strong><em>now</em></strong>, Sammy, is whining about the goddamn <em>heat!</em></p><p>“It’s fuckin’ <em>June</em>, Sammy. An’ it’s southern Cal, what the hell do you <em>expect</em> it to be? <em>Freezin’?”</em> Dean snaps. “Quit your whining Sammy, or Imma <strong>give</strong> you somethin’ to whine about!”</p><p>Dean says that last bit without really thinking about it—<em>and it momentarily <strong>stuns</strong> him.</em></p><p>‘Cause, Dean, realizes that he just sounded like <strong><em>Dad</em></strong>.</p><p>Dad used to say that to Dean—<em>still does when he’s pissed.</em></p><p>Sam isn’t fazed by Dean’s threat, however.</p><p>
  <em>Not today.</em>
</p><p>Hell, Sam, just shoots him this defiant, cross-armed, stare, then gives him this <em>‘try-it-I-dare-you,’</em> look.</p><p>Finally, Sammy, says, “I wish we were in the fuckin’ cold! It would be better than this heat!”</p><p>And fuck if Dean doesn’t just about lose the final thread of his cool!</p><p>Dean lowers his Colt to the table, completely unwilling to trust himself with it, right now, and not use it to shoot at the walls or something.</p><p>Cause … Cause Dean just <strong><em>can’t</em></strong>, anymore!</p><p>The nerves are getting real bad and Sammy ain’t helping in the least little bit.</p><p>This inescapable heat <em>sucks</em> for Dean, too. What with his shirt all pitted-out, and jeans feeling tight and hot on his thighs (but Dean is using his clothes as protection against Sammy seeing his fresh marks and starting on him about those next) but he’s dealing with it. ‘Cause he has to. ‘Cause it’s the card they’ve been dealt, today.</p><p>Sammy is really fucking testing him.</p><p>“You know what, Sam?! We <strong><em>could</em></strong> be in the fuckin’ cold, right now! But <strong><em>you</em></strong> had to go piss off, <em>Dad</em>, so he’d <em>leave</em> us—<strong><em>you</em></strong>—<strong><em>here!</em></strong> So, we could be in the fuckin’ Colorado mountains, but you had to go an’ be a little <em>bitch</em>, so here we friggin’ are! So, you want someone to <em>blame?</em> Blame yourself, Goddamnit! And stop <em>bitchin’</em> at me! Do I look like a goddamn, <strong><em>witch</em></strong> to you Sammy?! Do I look like I can control the fuckin’ <em>weather?! </em>Lasso up some friggin’ rainclouds from the friggin’ sky?!” Dean doesn’t give Sammy a chance to respond before he continues, “No?! Then just sit there and shuddup or so help me, I will fuckin’ hop in the Impala and freakin’ leave you and this shitty ass attitude of yours, behind!”</p><p>This is the most Dean’s yelled at Sammy in years.</p><p>Hell, Dean, can’t remember if he’s ever really <em>‘yelled’</em> at Sammy, before.</p><p>Snapped? Sure. Broken down? Yep. Blamed Sammy for everything? <em>Not really.</em></p><p>Sure, Sammy, does some really fucked-up shit, sometimes. Seducing, Dean, being at the <strong><em>top</em></strong> of that list, but Dean has <em>always</em> kept his cool.</p><p>Always just been a good <em>‘parental-figure’</em> for <em>his</em> Sammy—<em>his kid—</em>and taken the blame <strong>himself</strong>.</p><p>But Sammy has finally pushed him, too, far past the brink, toward insanity.</p><p>And for some reason, it got right under Dean’s skin today and wrenched.</p><p>Maybe it’s the heat—maybe it’s just that Dean hasn’t popped his pill today and it’s makin’ him antsy <em>(Dean is trying to conserve the few pills he still has left)</em> or maybe, Dean, just needs a <em>beer … </em></p><p>
  <em>Which they are also out of.</em>
</p><p>Either way, Dean, can see that Sammy is just as stunned by Dean’s outburst, as Dean is himself.</p><p>And just like that—<em>Sammy’s mood switches to tears.</em></p><p><em>Well,</em> <em>fuck</em>.</p><p>“I … I’m <em>sorry</em>, Deeeeee,” Sammy whines and whisks away his falling tears.</p><p>Dean stops, stares and gapes at, Sam, utterly confounded.</p><p>Sam is propped up against a pillow on their bed, clear across the room from Dean—<em>and even that in and of itself is odd.</em></p><p>Odd for Sammy’s usual need for cuddles and reassurance that Dean is always gonna be here—though not so much odd for the last few weeks, because Sammy hasn’t been spending as much time at Dean’s hip as he was before California. Before this shitty-ass heat and before Dad left in a huff over Sammy’s attitude.</p><p>But, still, Dean, should have figured something was—<em>is?</em> –wrong with Sammy.</p><p>Because normal is normal, and despite how Dean still wishes Sammy would grow out of his want to be in this twisted-ass relationship they have going, it’s all just wishful thinking and not really realistic for the way Sammy is.</p><p>Dean sighs, <em>(feeling the weight of what he just screamed at Sammy hit like a ton of bricks) </em>heads over and plops down on the mattress, next to Sam.</p><p>“I <em>shouldn’t</em> have yelled at you,” Dean concedes, feeling guilty as hell.</p><p>Sam looks up at Dean with this wide-eyed, tearful expression and shakes his head. “Y-You’re right … It <em>wasn’t</em> fair for me to … to be a <em>bitch</em> about it …”</p><p>Dean chews on his bottom pout and ruffles Sammy’s hair.</p><p>“You’ve never been so <em>picky</em> before, Sammy-Sam. I mean, hell, our whole life is one shitty-ass thing after another. So, tell me what’s up? ‘Cause I don’t think this is <em>just</em> about the heat, or lack of AC, or whatever.”</p><p>Sam fixes his rucked-up hair and shoots Dean a look, for messing it up.</p><p>“It’s nothin,’ De, I’m f—”</p><p>“Don’t say you’re <em>fine</em>, Sammy. Cause this sorta attitude, you have goin,’ it doesn’t scream <em>‘fine,’</em> to me.”</p><p>“It’s not really …” Sammy starts to say then stops himself. Sam screws up his face, “It doesn’t <em>matter</em>, De …”</p><p>The way Sammy bunches his fists, tight, into the hem of his short-sleeve shirt, tells Dean that whatever this is—it most definitely <em>does</em> matter.</p><p>Dean’s chest tightens and he cups Sam’s cheek, forcing Sam to look him in the eye.</p><p>“Tell me what’s the matter?” Dean grips Sam’s hands, next.  Unclenches them and takes in the current array of scabbed-up, nail scars all-across both Sam’s palms.</p><p>
  <em>Goddamnit!</em>
</p><p>Why hasn’t he been <em>checking</em> Sam for these, lately?</p><p>Dean’s just been so busy trying to keep up with hustling pool, schoolwork, and expenses that he hasn’t had the thought to check on Sammy’s self-harming, these last weeks.</p><p>Hell, even when they were wrapped up in one another, last, (a few weeks back) Dean, hadn’t been paying attention to Sammy’s skin underneath his clothes … <em>(at least not in great detail.)</em></p><p> How many other marks have escaped notice, cause of Dean being preoccupied, and Sammy not wanting Dean’s touch, these last weeks?</p><p>Sam swallows noticeably and hesitates.</p><p>The longer this drags on, the worse Dean is startin’ to feel.</p><p>“Sam? Tell me right, friggin,’ now!” Dean tries to keep his tone level, but that is hard when Dean is about ready to punch a lamp or clock or <strong><em>something</em></strong>.</p><p>Sam chews his bottom pout and Dean notices tiny little scabs have formed on the skin there, too.</p><p>
  <em>God! It looks so freaking painful!</em>
</p><p>Dean releases Sammy’s hands and tucks his hand under Sam’s chin, detaching Sam’s teeth from the sore lip with his thumb.</p><p>“Stop, Sammy … Just clue me in on what this is all about.”</p><p>“I don’t wanna talk about it, De. You … you wouldn’t understand, anyway … You’d just get <strong>mad</strong>.”</p><p>Sam bats Dean’s hand away from his chin and lip. Going back to avoiding Dean’s calculating eyes.</p><p>This is bad … It is <strong><em>really</em></strong> fucking bad and Dean needs to know what the hell is happening to, Sammy, or else he might actually lose his damn mind!</p><p>‘Cause, Dean, hasn’t been paying close enough attention. He should have known when Sammy didn’t want to be intimate at all these past weeks that something has been drastically wrong … but Dean’s been so damn preoccupied that Sammy’s behavior just continuously slipped on through the cracks.</p><p>What a, <em>shit,</em> big brother he’s been ….</p><p>Dean has to stop himself from descending into an outright panicky state.</p><p>Right now, Dean’s only concern is finding out what all this is really about.</p><p>“I’m <em>older</em>, Sammy. You really think I haven’t gone through the same <em>shit</em> you are, right now? Is it, <em>teenage</em>, stuff? Yer body actin’ up? What do you think I wouldn’t get? I mean … c’mon, Sam, it’s <em>me</em> yer talkin,’ too. I can help …”</p><p>Dean is trying to think of <strong>something</strong> he can say to help convince, Sam, but nothing is working.</p><p>The usual tricks seem to be making Sam look <strong>worse</strong>.</p><p>Sam shoots him one of these stubborn, <em>‘Winchester,’</em> looks, then stares back down at his lap.</p><p>“You can’t <em>help</em>, De.” Sammy wipes a few more tears from his cheeks and sniffles. “I’m just a <em>freak.”</em></p><p>“Woah, woah, hey! <strong>No</strong>, Sammy.” Dean maneuvers on their mattress, until he is kneeled, facing Sam “You ain’t a <em>freak</em>, okay?”</p><p>Dean has heard Sammy reference himself as a <em>‘freak’</em> in the past, but never like this. Not in this dark, <em>depleted</em> context …</p><p>Sammy is starting to scare the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> out of him.</p><p>Sammy scoffs. “Yeah, I am. <strong><em>You</em></strong> think I am.”</p><p>That hits like a bomb to Dean’s chest. And it hurts so damn much, that, Dean, doesn’t quite know what to make of it.</p><p>
  <em>Period.</em>
</p><p>Is Sammy’s change in demeanor, caused by, Dean, specifically? Dean isn’t still certain this is just about his last rejection of Sam …</p><p>Dean feels the onset of a panic attack and has to clench his jaw and breathe through his agitated nerves for a second.</p><p>He needs to focus—<em>for Sammy.</em></p><p>“When have I <em>ever</em> called you a freak, Sammy? An’ even if I <em>had</em> called you that, why d’ya think I actually <em>meant</em> it?”</p><p>Dean can’t actively remember calling Sammy a freak—but maybe he did in <strong><em>jest</em></strong> … and Sammy took it <strong>literal</strong>?</p><p>Sammy is such a <em>sensitive</em> kid, always has been.</p><p>Sometimes, Dean, forgets that.</p><p>“You’ve called me <em>worse</em>,” Sam meets Dean’s eye as he says it, and Dean chills to the bone.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Is this about … <em>about them?</em></p><p>About … about this ‘<strong><em>thing</em></strong>’ they have in secret?</p><p>Dean isn’t prepared for <em>‘that’</em> conversation, today.</p><p>Hell, Dean, doesn’t think he is ever gonna be prepared for <em>‘that’</em> conversation. ‘Cause that means they gotta talk in the open and Sammy is getting older and more capable of understanding everything that Dean understands about sex and love and sexuality …</p><p>
  <em>Shit. Shit. Shit.</em>
</p><p>“Have I …” Dean steadies himself and clears his throat, “Is this about <em>us,</em> Sammy?”</p><p>Sammy retightens his fists, then glances back away.</p><p>“No. I told you … it’s <strong><em>not</em></strong> … you just wouldn’t fucking <strong><em>understand</em></strong>, De!”</p><p>And they were back to <strong><em>this</em></strong> again.</p><p>Dean is relieved to a degree that it isn’t about them … but still, whatever this <strong>is</strong> about, it can’t be <strong><em>good</em></strong>.</p><p>“What won’t I understand?! Just, <em>try</em> me, Sammy! I promise, I ain’t gonna be mad. I just wanna know what’s the matter with you, Kiddo …”</p><p>Sammy gives Dean a frustrated look, then says, “You <em>really</em> wanna know?”</p><p>“Yes. I <strong><em>really</em></strong> wanna know, Sammy.”</p><p>“A couple weeks back, I was changin’ in the locker room an’ I …” Sam trails off and makes a little noise in his throat.</p><p>Something like a half-sob.</p><p>Dean scoots in a little closer and rubs along Sammy’s arm.</p><p>“And what? What happened, Sammy-Sam?” Dean coaxes, sympathetically.</p><p>“I got <strong><em>hard</em></strong>, okay?”</p><p>Dean relaxes a little bit.</p><p>An <em>erection?</em> Sammy has been moody because he popped a <em>stiffy?</em> Dean can’t count the number of times his own cock has acted-up on him.</p><p>The damn thing reacts to anyone that gets, too, close with a fever and happens to graze his freaking <em>arm</em>.</p><p>Dean can’t always control it—<em>hasn’t been able to in years.</em></p><p>Hell, if Sammy kissed him right damn now, Dean, would be raring to go in a <em>second-flat.</em></p><p>“That ain’t <em>so</em> bad, Sammy. I get ‘em all the time. Why did ya think I’d be <strong>mad</strong> ‘bout a stiffy in the locker room?”</p><p>Sam isn’t smiling, though. He doesn’t even ease a single muscle in his body.</p><p>Sam is still stiff as a board—<em>on edge.</em></p><p>“That’s not <em>why</em>, I think that, De,” Sammy admits and swallows.</p><p>“Then, <em>why?”</em></p><p>Sammy shifts uncomfortably in place and lowers his head.</p><p>“I was distracted by a … by one of the <em>boys</em> in my class. He … He’s always been <em>nice</em> to me … I mean … I just …” Sammy clenches his jaw and his tears come faster. “I got <em>hard</em> because I was looking at <strong>him</strong>. And the other kids … they noticed me starin’ then saw I was <span class="u">hard</span> and they pointed and laughed. Called me a <em>‘Creep,’ a ‘Faggot,’ a ‘Freak.’ </em>I tried to change quickly, but they had already seen. I started changin’ in the stalls every day after that, but that didn’t matter either. They spread it around the whole school that I am a <em>‘Fag,’</em> and for every boy to keep away ‘cause I might … I might <em>infect</em> them with my sickness …”</p><p>Dean almost shuts down—<em>right here ….</em></p><p>His mind doesn’t want to process what Sammy is telling him.</p><p>That … that Dean’s worst <em>fear</em> has been realized—and this is … this kind of shit <strong><em>is</em></strong> Dean’s worst imaginable fear.</p><p>That someone might find out about Sammy—that Sammy might develop <em>affections</em> for another boy and that this sorta thing might happen.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Dean would have given anything—<em>everything</em>—to spare Sammy from this sorta pain.</p><p>Sam is shaking and sobbing by this point. Hands balled-up, skin splotched with redness, and this look of pure shame and self-loathing on his face.</p><p><em>“Sammy …” </em>Dean doesn’t know how to mend this particular <em>hurt</em> in his little brother.</p><p>Mostly, because Dean knows that there isn’t a damn thing that will <em>ever</em> soothe his <strong><em>own</em></strong> scorching hurt that accompanies being called <strong><em>those</em></strong> things.</p><p>This is why, Dean, made Sammy promise him that he would <em>never</em> try to pursue another boy, all that time ago.</p><p>This sorta hateful reaction outta other people. Sammy doesn’t have Dean’s thick skin. Nor years of experience at taking that sorta verbal abuse, like Dean has. Dad makes damn sure, Dean, receives a constant dosage whenever they are alone.</p><p>“You were <em>right</em>, De, okay? You were always right. I am messed-up. An’ … I get that, now. I sorta <em>always</em> knew … but, but I thought it was just, Dad … Dad an’ the way he thinks ‘bout things. But it’s not … Dad and you, Dean. You’re both the sane … right-brained ones, an’ I’m just the backwards, Freak of nature! An’ I hate it, cause this means I dragged you into this … this … <strong><em>thing</em></strong> that we have an’ I can’t … I can’t imagine how <em>repulsive</em> I must be to you, for that, De … That’s why you <strong><em>need</em></strong> things, things from girls an’ … an’ why you fought this so <em>hard</em> for so long … an’ you don’t want me <em>inside</em> of you cause … cause I ain’t <strong>natural</strong>. I’m <em>sick</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, holy fuck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. Fuck. Shit.</em>
</p><p>Dean is close to panic-mode, because this is <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Innocent. Goddamn. Sammy.</em>
</p><p>Spewing out these hateful things about himself, that Dean knows, deep-down, are only true about <strong><em>himself</em></strong>—<em>never Sammy.</em></p><p>If <em>anyone</em> fucked-up <strong><em>anyone</em></strong> else here, it was Dean that fucked-up Sammy. <strong>Not</strong> the other way around.</p><p>
  <em>Beautiful. Handsome. Freakin’-Golden. Sammy.</em>
</p><p>Dean is the damaged, sick, <em>freak</em>, between them. Dean is the one that first <strong><em>touched</em></strong>, Sammy, not the other way around.</p><p>
  <em>God damn it all to hell!</em>
</p><p>“Hey, Stop! Slow your roll, Sammy-Sam! I <em>mean</em> it. You ain’t a freak. An’ you ain’t <em>backwards</em>, <em>repulsive</em>, or whatever else you just <em>said</em> you were, alright?”</p><p>Dean thumbs away Sam’s tears as they roll down his face and presses the deepest of kisses right up against Sammy’s red lips.</p><p>Stealing it, without hesitance.</p><p>Sammy whimpers against Dean’s mouth, while Dean forces his tongue past Sammy’s kiss-heavy pout. Easefully, exploring the luscious depths with broken little flicks of the tip.</p><p>How the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> is he gonna fix this shit?</p><p>Dean eventually pulls back when he hears, Sammy’s sobs, let-up the tiniest degree, in order to look, Sammy, square in the eye.</p><p><em>“De …</em> <em>don’t …”</em> Sammy whispers around a breath of stifled air.</p><p>“No, Sam. I’m <strong><em>not</em></strong> gonna stop,” Dean hisses around a rough breath of his own.</p><p>In a split-second decision, Dean, lowers a hand and cups the small bulk of Sammy’s heat, straight through his tight, and probably hot, shorts. Sammy is rock-hard against Dean’s palm from just that one heat-laden kiss, shared between them. Which Dean knew would happen—he knows every last little thing there is to know about Sammy’s body.</p><p>“Dean!” Sammy squeaks, jolting his hips in tempered surprise.</p><p>“If you’re a repulsive freak, then so am I, Sammy. Because I trained ya to be like this. To <em>need</em> a <strong>boy’s</strong> touch—<em>not a girl’s</em>—an’ I never shoulda done that to you, Man. Not in a hundred, friggin’ years, but here we are. And here <em>I</em> am. Because I fuckin’ <strong><em>love</em></strong> you, Sammy-Sam. An’ I need you. I friggin’ <em>need</em> you, okay?” Dean says what comes to mind—<em>and he means it.</em></p><p>
  <em>All of it.</em>
</p><p>Come hell or high water, Dean, <em>needs</em> Sam.</p><p>That has never changed, no matter how deep in regret, shame, or guilt, Dean, happens to be at any given moment—Dean will always, fucking, love and need, <strong><em>his</em></strong>, Sammy.</p><p>Sammy makes a strangled noise in his throat and clamps a hand around Dean’s wrist.</p><p>“<strong>Dean</strong>—”</p><p><em>“No, Sammy.</em> There is no arguing with this, you got that? My regret is <strong>not</strong> about you. The things I can’t do and the places I can’t go with you … that’s on <strong>me</strong>, not <strong>you</strong>. Okay? An’ it isn’t a reflection of my feelings for you. It’s … It’s my own shit I gotta work through an’ that’s it.”</p><p>Dean still can’t fathom letting Sammy in on the truth of things. Because once that can of worms is spilled, it can never be un-spilled—and Dean doesn’t want that.</p><p>Dean doesn’t want the twisted things Dad and him do to ever be cemented in Sammy’s consciousness. Because then they’d be lodged there—<em>forever. </em></p><p>Same as they’re lodged in Dean.</p><p>Using the tips of his fingers, Dean, starts to lightly massage the very tip of Sammy’s arousal—<em>deft and slow</em>—while shifting to push Sammy down and back into the motel pillows and mattress below.</p><p>Sammy releases a half-squeal of pure sensitivity that makes its way straight down to Dean’s <em>own</em> need. Stiffening and swelling the needy thing, straight to a point, in his bottoms.</p><p>In seconds, sweat builds on Sam’s forehead and little plea-like groans are coming outta Sammy’s pout.</p><p>“D-De … stop, <em>I’m gonna—”</em></p><p>Dean swallows Sammy’s next words around a heat-slaked kiss and pulls his head back up when Sammy’s words fade and meld into outright moans.</p><p>“I <strong>know</strong>, Sammy. You’re <em>still</em> my little <em>touch-addict,”</em> Dean teases, trying to distract Sammy and in the interim <em>(hopefully)</em> relax both Sammy and himself.</p><p>‘Cause Dean is so <em>dangerously</em> close to demanding names and home addresses so he can go beat the ever-living fuck out of the little shits that have been hurting Sammy and twisting him all up inside, these past weeks.</p><p>And he needs to remember <em>(desperately)</em> that Sammy needs him <strong><em>here</em></strong>—not out, <strong><em>there</em></strong>, busting balls and <em>cutting off</em> <strong><em>dicks</em></strong>.</p><p>“And you’re gonna <em>cum</em> for me, just like the <em>good</em> little touch-starved addict, you are. An’ then I’m gonna <em>claim</em> you, again. Remind you how much we <strong><em>both</em></strong> are in this … <em>together.” </em></p><p>In the last year or so, Dean, started this sorta <em>dirty-talk</em> thing with Sammy whenever they’re intimate and found out just <strong><em>how</em></strong> into this sorta thing, Sammy, is.</p><p>Dad taught, Dean, how to dirty-talk, first, but Dean really honed the skill with his female conquests.</p><p>Sammy might be all shy-eyes and prudish outside of their sex-tangles, but inside of them? Sammy is all kink and sass.</p><p>Same as Dean.</p><p>Dean still likes to watch Sammy get all squirmy and antsy, with his cheeks all pink-tinged, and his restless body unable to sit still, just like he has since they were both little.</p><p>That hasn’t changed, either, in all these years.</p><p>Shifting closer, Dean, spears his stiff hardness against Sammy’s hip. Sammy’s cotton shirt has ridden up a little somewhere in the midst of all Sammy’s squirming, so, Dean, knows Sammy can feel the poke of him, quite evidently even through Dean’s bottoms.</p><p>“Feel <strong>that</strong>, Sammy?” Dean breathes right up against the shell of Sammy’s ear.</p><p>Sammy makes a little noise in acknowledgement.</p><p><em>“You</em> do this to me. My body is all hormones and crap, too, Sammy, and don’t you go forgetting that. But it’s <strong><em>most</em></strong> reactive when it’s up against <strong><em>yours</em></strong>. An’ that’s all the proof I need, to show I ain’t bein’ <em>forced</em> into nothin’. You’re my whole damn world, Sammy-Sam. I don’t gotta do a <strong>damn</strong> thing to make myself ready for ya.”</p><p>That’s <strong><em>all</em></strong> it takes.</p><p>In the next second, Dean, senses Sammy’s package pulse and jerk. While thick wads of slick seeps out, into, and through the tight-heat of Sammy’s bottoms. Oozing through the fabric and making quite the mess of Sammy’s pants. Forming the most <strong>evident</strong> stain down there.</p><p>Sammy is all pink-cheeks and embarrassment, but Dean just leans in, while rubbing and kissing him through it.</p><p>Dean loves it when Sammy cums before their intimacy really beings. It means that Sammy is gonna be extra-sensitive when Dean is buried inside of him.</p><p>The intensity rushes <strong><em>thousands</em></strong> of percentiles up.</p><p>Hell, Sammy, can barely be <strong>touched</strong> after a <em>single</em> cum, he’s so sensitive in the aftermath. Dean is much the same way and knows they both got handed the same, <em>‘sensitive-to-touch,’</em> gene from Mom that Dad constantly reminds Dean that he holds.</p><p>“Promise you w-won’t lemme be a <em>burden</em>, De …” Sam manages to say, through gasps of air and half-lidded eyes.</p><p>The heat in this room just skyrocketed, <em>exponentially</em>. So much so, that it’s almost, <em>too much, </em>for, Dean, now. Thanks to the rise in body-produced warmth in this room.</p><p>“How many times do I gotta tell you, that you’ve never <em>been</em> a burden, Sammy? I’ve made you promises, given you <strong>every</strong> little piece of me that’s left to give, an’ still we always end up, right back <em>here</em>. What more do I gotta do, Kiddo? Carve your name into my <em>skin?</em> Cause I’ll fuckin’ do it, Sammy. I’ll get out my <em>blade</em>, carve, and <strong><em>bleed</em></strong> for you.”</p><p>It’s sorta like a <em>curse</em>.</p><p>Like, Dean, is working against the whole damn universe on this front.</p><p>Sure, Dean, has been <strong>conflicted</strong> over the years.</p><p>Dad plays a major hand in Dean’s <em>continued</em> confliction, but in the end, Dean, always decides Sammy’s happiness <em>(and Dean dares to group in his own happiness into the factor, too)</em> outweighs the wrongness—<em>the guilt</em>—that accompanies this kinda love, between them.</p><p>Because it isn’t <strong><em>just</em></strong> sick, wrong, shameful, touches anymore. It hasn’t been only <em>that</em> for a while, now.</p><p>These last three years, Dean, has grown to expect and need this <em>thing</em> they got going, just as much as Sammy does.</p><p>Dad has only gotten rougher with Dean and his epidermis with time. So, many scars, bruises, cuts, and scrapes can be attributed to Dad and the way he fights tooth and nail against the things he now craves and needs outta Dean to get by.</p><p>Dad’s shame is <em>always</em> cut and seared into the places no one can see. Dean’s <strong><em>insides</em></strong>. Dad hits below the belt with words and Dean fucking lets him, ‘cause that’s the way things gotta be.</p><p>And Dean knows that he has both said and done things to Sammy that are conflicting and come across as really, really, bad <em>(in retrospect)</em> from Sammy’s point of view, but Dean wishes there was a way to get across to, Sammy, <em>right now,</em> that everything he’s ever done, is Dean’s fucked-up way of trying to <strong>protect</strong> Sammy.</p><p>Not <strong><em>hurt</em></strong> him.</p><p>Yet, sometimes, Dean, just winds up <em>hurting</em> the kid.</p><p>Like <strong><em>this</em></strong> time.</p><p>Dean shoulda known better.</p><p>Dean’s words seem to have hit Sammy, though, because he’s looking up at Dean with this penetrating expression that has Dean’s insides broiling.</p><p>“You’ve bled <em>enough</em> for me, De,” Sammy relents, tracing his right-hand along Dean’s neck, triggering the skin to ripple and sing to life, “I don’t think I’m <strong>worth</strong> all that.”</p><p>Dean experiences his heart clench and the want to kill every last eighth-grader that left Sammy feeling this way, grows to new depths inside of Dean.</p><p>“You’re worth all that and <strong>more</strong>, Sammy. I’d fuckin’ <strong><em>die</em></strong> for you. You <em>hearin’</em> me?”</p><p>Dean forces Sam to look him in the eye, by gripping his chin. “You give me the damn <strong><em>word</em></strong> an’ I will fuckin’ beat their faces in for sayin’ you ain’t <strong>worth</strong> nothin’. For sayin’ you’ve got a <em>sickness.”</em></p><p>Dipping down his head, Dean, smears their lips together, climbs on top of Sam, and grinds their crotches together. Letting the poke of both their arousals rub against each other in mind-numbing friction.</p><p>Sammy keens like a puppy in rut and arches his back.</p><p>Dean feels the squish of seed with every drive of his hips and it only seems to rile up, Sammy, more.</p><p>“Don’t l-leave, De—” Sammy manages to say, in-between these eager touch-starved ruts of his hips.</p><p>The beat of Dean’s heart is soaring to new heights, while peaks of lust and fire take root in Dean’s lower parts.</p><p>All, Sammy, has to do is plead—and Dean reacts like a tornado, ready to blow down every friggin’ house just for Sammy to have a clear, <em>sustainable</em>, path.</p><p>“Shhh. I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Sammy. I’m <em>right</em> here,” Dean promises, while touching and feeling his way up the length of Sam’s overly-responsive body.</p><p>These rampant hormones are doing quite the number, because Sam is a damn-straight mess underneath, Dean, right now.</p><p>And Dean can’t seem to steal his eyes away.</p><p>With practiced ease, Dean, strips them both outta their sweat-soaked clothes. Piece by piece, until their bare skin is on complete display to one another.</p><p>Dean doesn’t even think about how <em>abused</em> his own skin is right now. All these fresh new scars that he’s gone and made these past couple of weeks, litter and scour the surface like repugnant <strong><em>filth</em></strong>.</p><p>Sam <em>doesn’t</em> shy away, though.</p><p>Sam <strong><em>never</em></strong> shies away.</p><p>Their eyes touch, and Sam gives him this <strong>soft</strong> expression, through his discomposure and leans in to grant kisses to the spaces that are <strong>newly</strong> corrupted by Dean’s overstressed psyche.</p><p>Dean bites back tears as Sam shows his <em>love</em> like <em>this</em>—it always makes him wonder how someone so <strong>precious</strong> as Sammy could see any type of <em>good</em> in the disgusting shell, Dean, occupies.</p><p>Especially since, <strong><em>Dad</em></strong>, never has.</p><p>The anger that built up in Dean from everything that Sam just told him, melts away, and Dean falls into Sammy—<em>like he always has.</em></p><p>Stealing kisses<em>, (once Sammy has finished kissing all of Dean’s marks)</em> Dean, pushes-up the slender bulk of Sam’s legs up into a <em>‘v,’</em> lubes him up with spit, and pushes home in Sammy without further hesitance.</p><p>It’s been, <strong><em>too</em></strong>, damn, long.</p><p>Too many weeks, and Dean feels the tightness—<em>the lack of give</em>—as he struggles to <strong>fit</strong>.</p><p><em>‘Holy shit, is Sammy, tight!’</em> Dean thinks to himself, while trying to keep from having an orgasm on contact, alone!</p><p>Dean trembles and squeezes his rippling muscles, while adjusting to being back inside of Sammy, again. These past weeks with <strong><em>girls</em></strong>, just can’t compare to what Dean experiences with Sammy.</p><p>Sammy blushes and keens from the pressure. Arching his hips and gasping for air. Dean knows what it feels like to take a man after weeks without—it’s this stretch and pull sensation that isn’t altogether unpleasant, but also <strong><em>is</em></strong> tight and <strong>uncomfortable</strong>.</p><p>Feeling bad, Dean, lowers a hand and begins to tug at Sammy’s <em>overstimulated</em> need, still thick with blood, and in need—<em>again</em>—to be brought off.</p><p>“You been touchin’ yourself, Sammy? Or lettin’ it build an’ build till it <em>explodes</em> out in bad moods and fussin’? Dean asks, while jerking Sam in hard-fast wrist movements.</p><p>Sammy rearranges his face, blushing red as a cherry-pop, and Dean <strong>knows</strong> the answer—<em>but he’s gonna make Sammy say it.</em></p><p>“Sammy?” Dean curves his mouth into a <em>wicked</em> smile, “You ain’t gonna <strong>lie</strong> to me, are you? Hmm?”</p><p>Sammy huffs and squirms, between drawn-out moans, but finally answers, verbally.</p><p>“I … I ain’t been <strong><em>touchin</em></strong><em>,’</em> De …”</p><p>That confession shouldn’t have Dean all hot and bothered—<em>but it does.</em></p><p>Knowing, Sammy, has been existing with all this pent-up <strong><em>need</em></strong> inside of him? It’s enough to make, Dean, damn-near <strong>cum</strong> <em>(even though he is still waiting on Sammy to adjust and not moving, yet)</em> and he has to <strong>steel</strong> himself against it.</p><p>“That’s real <em>naughty</em> of you, Sammy. No wonder you’ve been on edge. It ain’t <em>just</em> from those bullies, it’s all these <strong>hormones</strong> you let build-up.”</p><p>Sammy cries-out, when Dean speeds up his hand movements, with <strong>every</strong> intention of getting Sammy off, before he moves inside of him.</p><p>Sammy <strong><em>doesn’t</em></strong> disappoint.</p><p>In seconds, Sammy, is spouting off a fresh load. Long, thick, spatters of seed spurt onto Sammy’s belly and his tiny erection, flops down on his stomach, when Dean finally lets it go, after stroking him through it.</p><p>Gasping and shaking, Sammy, looks up at Dean, so widely sensitized, now, that he squeaks and giggles when Dean so much as drags his hand along Sammy’s bare and sweat-soaked waist.</p><p>Dean’s buried rod, twitches and aches, from this unexpected sight and sound outta Sammy.</p><p>Fuck! It isn’t fair what Sammy can do to him!</p><p>“You <em>extra</em>-sensitive, now, Sammy-Sam?”</p><p>Sam nods his head and squeak-giggles, again, when Dean swirls a thumb around one of Sammy’s nipple-peaks.</p><p>Dean uses both hands to stimulate Sam’s nipples, while working himself in and out of Sammy in rough thrusts. The sounds these actions create outta Sammy are undeniably, pure and delicious.</p><p>Sammy is in a frenzy of moans, hisses, and gasps underneath, Dean, while he seeks out his own pleasure. Sammy keens, gasps, and cries, and Dean isn’t able to last more than a minute, before he, too, erupts in a wave of fiery ache that resonates everywhere, all-throughout his whole body.</p><p>One final thrust, shoots Dean’s load deep inside of, Sammy, while the constant strokes from his thumbs, against Sammy’s nipples appear to have a significant impact on Sammy’s still-engorged, sex.</p><p>Dean gasps in shock, when Sammy sprays them both with ropes of cum. Spattering the hot goo between them. This avid cloud of sheer lust, sweeps across Sammy’s face, like a mask of unadulterated pleasure.</p><p>Time ceases to exist for, Dean, as his mind overloads from way too many sensations, all at once, and so many feelings all scooped together inside of him.</p><p>Maybe it’s minutes? Seconds? And Dean finds himself tucked at Sammy’s side, with Sammy sidewinding him with a leg draped across Dean’s hip.</p><p>Their sweat-soaked bodies panting in and sticking together from the condensation.</p><p>And fuck—even that feels so damn good, because everything feels really freaking good, right now, to Dean’s overstimulated and tingly flesh.</p><p>Sammy scoots in a little closer and Dean winds his arm tighter around, Sammy. He desperately wants to reassure Sammy of his worth—<em>of how much he fucking <strong>loves</strong> him</em>—and he’s, too, drained to speak, just yet.</p><p>Minutes pass by and all there is, is silence—and their panting.</p><p>And in the silence, Dean, is reminded by the furthest reaches of his mind that he still has to go out, tonight, and earn that money to fix up the Impala—<em>and fuck if that doesn’t kill him a little bit inside to think about.</em></p><p>‘Cause all Dean wants to do, right now, is curl up and sleep next to his safe place—<strong><em>his</em></strong> <em>Sammy</em>.</p><p>But he <em>can’t</em>.</p><p>He’s gotta get up, and he’s gotta go shower, and dress himself.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“You still think I’m repulsed by you, Sammy-Sam?” Dean whispers, daring to break this wonderful silence they got going.</p><p>Sammy tilts up his chin and looks, Dean, narrowly in the eyes, behind half-lidded ones of his own.</p><p>“I think you’re my big brother and I love you …” Sammy breathes out.</p><p>Dean snorts and presses a kiss to Sammy’s crown. “That ain’t any sorta answer, Sammy. Do I gotta try an’ get it up an’ claim your horny little body, again? Or you gonna answer like a good boy? Please, tell me you don’t still believe those friggin’ asshats were right about a goddamn thing.”</p><p>Dean can still vaguely register the cooled streaks of Sammy’s cum splotched, just below his bellybutton, as a reminder that Sammy got off a sum total of three friggin’ times.</p><p>Which is a lot for, Sammy, in such a short window of time.</p><p>Sammy lets out a little noise, that could be a keen, but, Dean, is too out of it, to tell. One of his hands drags up and down the taut skin Hat Sammy’s waist a couple times, for emphasis and Sammy shivers and Dean notices his rod expanding to erection, again.</p><p>Jesus Christ! This kid!</p><p>“I don’t think they’re right, De,” Sammy relents with this cute-as-a-friggin’-button look on his face.</p><p>Dean palms Sammy’s erection for a few seconds, watching with fascination while Sammy descends into twitches and spasms on their mattress.</p><p>Holy hell, is Sammy ever sensitive!</p><p>This is the most sensitive Dean’s ever seen him—and he kinda wants to take advantage, like an asshole, right now.</p><p>“D-Deeeeeeee,” Sammy squeezes his thighs and traps Dean’s hand, down-between them in the process.</p><p>“Yeah, <em>Baby Boy?”</em> Dean knows how Sammy likes it when he calls him that while they’re like this.</p><p>Dean knows all of Sammy’s turn-ons, by now.</p><p>Sure enough, Sammy, lets out a tiny yelp through his wanton-moans for Dean to stop and continue, simultaneously.</p><p>“T-Too sensitive …” Sammy pants and heaves, while squirming this way and that.</p><p>With a chuckle, Dean, retracts his grazing hand and kisses at Sammy’s skelp.</p><p>“Alright, Sammy-Sam. I won’t keep touchin’ ya if it hurts,” Dean promises while stroking at Sammy’s shoulder, aoothingly.</p><p>Sammy sends him a grateful smile and stretches out his limbs with little pops and cracks.</p><p>“I gotta head out for a bit, Sammy,” Dean admits, reluctantly, with something of a forced smile.</p><p>Dean is already aware of the hell he’s bringing on himself, but the Impala needs fixing and that’s that.</p><p>Sammy perks up instantly and gives Dean a ‘don’t-go’ look, (More like pout), through worried eyes.</p><p>“I gotta, Kiddo. Just gonna head out, hustle some pool, and head back. No big deal, okay?”</p><p>“Why? You still have cash …” Sammy groans.</p><p>“Yeah, but not enough to fix up the AC in Dad’s car,” Dean explains.</p><p>Sammy groans, louder this time, and monkey-clings to Dean’s waist—arms and legs—both.</p><p>“C’mon, Sammy, none of that, now … I gotta hop in a shower, first. An’ then I gotta rest, ‘cause it’s gonna be a busy couple days for us both.”</p><p>Dean can feel his heart singing with regret for needing to leave Sammy, right now (especially after the dark headspace Dean just pulled him outta) and it’s really not sitting right with, Dean, but he doesn’t have a choice.</p><p> Besides, Dean, deserves this punishment, for letting Sammy slip through the cracks these last weeks. And that’s all there is to it.</p><p>Leaning in, Dean, snakes a kiss against, Sammy’s kiss-swollen pout, and untangles Sammy’s arms and legs from around his body.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Sammy-Sam. I’ll make this up to you, somehow. Promise,” Dean says, peering back over his shoulder as he hops outta their bed.</p><p>Sammy grumbles and sits up, leaking cum down his belly, since he’s still caked in seed.</p><p>“I have a way, De,” Sammy says.</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean asks. “What’s that?”</p><p>“Lemme shower with you and wash me up …” Sammy sticks his index finger in his mouth, with this seductive little smile on his lips that could take a damn king down to his knees a second.</p><p>Dean melts.</p><p>“Alright, c’mon, Sammy. You can shower with me.”</p><p>Sammy perks right up and follows, Dean, into the bathroom and closes the door behind with him a click.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxiii. cracks in the mantel.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>“You’re three days late, Boy!”</em> is the first thing Dad snaps at Dean when they sneak off into the back of the Impala, six days after the last day of school.</p><p>Dean earned the money to fix up the Impala <em>(and still has the bruises from borderline-abusive and rough sex to show for it)</em> but wound up taking longer than he planned to locate the correct replacement part and install it.</p><p>Dean had to pack Sammy into the car and drive three towns over just to purchase the right part, after a full day of searching. Then, Dean, had to install the part, which took another day.</p><p>And then, they ran into intense traffic in three different states which delayed them even longer.</p><p>Now, Dean, is scared shitless—<em>tired as hell</em>—and just ready to get this punishment <em>(whatever it’s gonna be)</em> over with, so he can go sleep.</p><p>Dad has alcohol practically spilling outta his pores, tonight, which means this could go up, down, or friggin’ <strong><em>sideways</em></strong>, for all Dean knows and he’s, too, damn tired, to care which.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Dad. I had to replace the AC and it took a couple days to—”</p><p>“An’ how’d you get the <em>money</em> for the parts? I reckon you didn’t have enough left over from what<strong><em> I</em></strong> gave ya,” Dad asks with this steely look that tells Dean he’s <strong>really</strong> gonna get it.</p><p>Dean swallows around a lump and wishes he’d had the forethought to pop a painkiller before climbing in here, tonight.</p><p>“I hustled pool,” Dean lies, while trying to keep a straight face.</p><p>Dad sees right through, like always.</p><p>In one swift movement, Dad, has Dean’s shirt overhead, and in another, Dean’s fly open and jeans yanked to half-mast.</p><p>Before Dean can argue, Dad, has him on his back, surveying him for marks. The bruises are telltale—<em>and everywhere</em>—all across Dean’s skin.</p><p>“What’d I tell you ‘bout <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks,’ </em>Boy?” Dad growls and Dean’s heart almost stops.</p><p>“I didn’t—<em>AHHHHH!”</em></p><p>The worst imaginable agony suddenly shoots up Dean’s right arm. And it’s like this blinding, searing pain that has Dean doubled into himself in a second-flat. Dean’s eyes blur with tears and it takes everything in him to swallow down the bile that starts to rush up his esophagus.</p><p>It takes, Dean, a good minute to come out of the hurt enough to discover that Dad just applied immense force to his wrist. Enough to <strong><em>snap</em></strong> the bone like a freaking, weak-ass, twig.</p><p>“That’s for bein’ fuckin’ <em>late!”</em></p><p>Dean can’t see through the blur of tears that have welled in his eyes, but he knows his wrist is <strong><em>useless</em></strong> now … and that’s the hand he <strong>writes</strong> with.</p><p>Suddenly, another blinding pain of agony is lighting up his side. This time, Dad, <em>didn’t</em> use his fists, but some sorta blunt object that hurt like a <strong>bitch</strong>.</p><p>And, Dean, <em>does</em> throw-up this time. Because he feels his ribs <strong><em>crack</em></strong>—<em>hears it, too.</em></p><p>Oh God … Dad is <strong><em>actually</em></strong> gonna to <strong>kill</strong> him this time.</p><p><em>‘This is it,’</em> Dean thinks to himself, tears and snot running down his face, with traces of vomit on his chin.</p><p>“That, is for fuckin’ <strong>lying</strong> to me!” Dad rages down at him, but Dean can barely hear it through the vital pump of his heart in his chest.</p><p>The final two blows come hard and fast. One cracks him in the left arm, right below the shoulder and he feels it <em>dislocate</em>. The second is to the side of his head. Dean can feel his world starting to spin and realizes, his body is starting to seize.</p><p>His muscles contract, bladder releases, and world goes pitch-black. The last thing he hears through ringing in his head is Dad’s voice.</p><p>“And <strong>that’s</strong> for being a goddamned <em>Faggot!”</em></p><p>Dean blacks out, after that. The pain, humiliation, and trauma, all too much.</p><p>His last thought, is of Sammy—<em>being warm and safe and in bed, where he belongs with Sammy.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>xxxxxx</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean wakes up in the hospital, a week later.</p><p>Sammy and Dad at his bedside, and a doctor expressing sympathy for his unfortunate, <em>‘mugging,’</em> outside his motel.</p><p>Dean goes along with it—<em>for Sammy’s sake</em>—because he takes one look at those wide, broken-looking eyes, and he just can’t think about anything else.</p><p>Least of letting Sammy know that, <strong><em>Dad</em></strong>, did this to him.</p><p>The doctor tells, Dean, that there is <strong>swelling</strong> in his brain, permanent partial hearing loss in his left ear, a broken right wrist, and fractured ribs, but that he was gonna pull through it.</p><p>Because he is <em>strong-willed </em>and stubborn as a bull.</p><p>But, in the two months that follow, Dean, doesn’t <strong>feel</strong> strong, or bull-like.</p><p>Just, <em>tired</em> … and broken down to the last little <strong>tethers</strong> of being.</p><p>Dad has the wherewithal to at least <strong><em>look</em></strong> fucking guilty about <strong>everything</strong>. Later on, he blames the two bottles of vodka he downed that night, but Dean knows <em>now</em> that his Dad hates him.</p><p>There <em>isn’t</em> a way to get around it.</p><p>This man that Dean has <em>idolized</em> since he can remember, positively, fucking <strong>hates</strong> him. Enough to break him for being irreparably <em>broken</em>. Because that’s what Dean is—<em>was</em>—has been for longer than he’s been <em>whole</em>, by this point.</p><p>A broken heap of junk-parts that, Dad, Jake, Mom’s death, all helped him <strong>fall</strong> into.</p><p>Dean has to spend weeks in the hospital, to be certain that he won’t seize and die—<em>or overextend himself. </em>And Sammy spends those first weeks of Summer holed up in that shitty hospital bed right there with him.</p><p>Dad goes off on his hunts and barely bothers to call to check in—<em>hell, Bobby, comes to visit more than Dad.</em></p><p>Even, Pastor Jim, drops in to recite the lord’s prayer and pray for Dean to have a swift recovery. Sammy is more than happy to pray with, Pastor Jim, but Dean gave up praying to those damn angels—<em>and wasn’t about to start over that.</em></p><p>What, Pastor Jim, Bobby, and even <strong>Sammy</strong>, fail to understand is that what Dad <strong><em>broke</em></strong> in him this last time—will <em>never</em> be repaired.</p><p>Dad took him—<em>and fucking broke him to bits.</em></p><p>Tore whatever shreds of Dean that still existed in the pleasant light of warmth <em>(that is his Sammy)</em> and annihilated it all.</p><p>All the tiny parts and <em>home-spaces</em>, Sammy, helped build in Dean over those three years they were happy and together—<em>all blown apart.</em></p><p>Dean is scarred—<em>soul-deep</em>—and that will never go away.</p><p>
  <em>Ever.</em>
</p><p>Dad taught him, this <em>last</em> time, that being in love with another man is the worst possible thing <strong>anyone</strong> can be. <em>(‘Cause Dad did this to him just because he slept with other men for cash. What would he have done if Dean had had a boyfriend?)</em> Worse than Dean thought it was—worse than Dean could have <em>imagined</em>—because Dad literally showed him what would happen <em>(what could happen)</em> to Sammy, someday for <strong>their</strong> sins.</p><p>So many <strong><em>damn</em></strong> sins.</p><p>Dean spends so many nights in that damn scratchy-sheeted bed, with Sammy snoring lightly next to him, thinking about Sammy and how much he, fucking, <strong>loves</strong> the kid—<em>his kid.</em></p><p>More than life, more than <em>breathing</em>.</p><p>And, Dean, finds himself stuck between a wall and a hard-place, because <em>leaving</em> Sammy isn’t an option—breaking up with him <strong>less</strong> of an option—and Dean is just <strong><em>stuck</em></strong>.</p><p>Stuck in this mess that he made, the <em>second</em> that Dean first touched, baby-Sammy’s skin.</p><p>Such a <em>Godforsaken</em>, mess.</p><p>By, the fourth of July, Dean, is outta the hospital, and dumped at Bobby’s with Sammy, so that he might <em>heal</em>. Which is laughable, because, Dean, no longer knows <strong>how</strong> to heal, or what that even <strong><em>looks</em></strong> like.</p><p>Dean watches in the Summer-night, heat, as Sammy spins circles with sparklers in his hands, and Bobby sets up fireworks that light up the entire sky over the junkyard, and it’s the first time that Dean feels any sorta light, at all, since his, <em>‘mugging.’</em></p><p>Dean has the ultimate reason to forgo intimacy with, Sammy, on account of his fractured ribs, painful wrist, and wrecked left shoulder, but Dean, doesn’t use it—<em>at least not fully.</em></p><p>Dean spends every night <em>(even those in his hospital bed)</em> with a hand down, between, Sammy’s thighs. Stroking and working Sammy into a mess of seed and spent bliss.</p><p>Often, he whispers to Sammy that his own libido is diminished by his injuries, <em>(and to some degree it is) </em>but in actually, Dean, just knows that he doesn’t <strong>deserve</strong> the pleasure.</p><p><em>Sammy,</em> <em>does</em>.</p><p>Sammy could never be a worthless pile of <strong>shit</strong>, like Dean is.</p><p>Even on the <em>fourth</em>, after fireworks, when Bobby sends them up to bed, Dean, touches all the spaces he’s <strong>always</strong> touched, just under Sammy’s clothes, then jerks Sammy off in his left palm. Sending, Sammy, off to sleep in groggy-contentment, with <strong>empty</strong> balls.</p><p>The Summer continues on that way, with Dean keeping to the room he shares with Sammy<em> (having little to no interest in fixing up junker-cars) </em>and battling the depression that runs rampant like roaches in his brain.</p><p>Sammy has spent the majority of the Summer at Dean’s hip, reading through several books he expects to be required reads for the upcoming schoolyear.</p><p>Dean doesn’t even have it in him to poke fun at Sam for it—<em>but Sammy doesn’t really seem to notice.</em></p><p>And things carry on that way for the remainder of the Summer. The only change being in, August, when the cast was removed from Dean’s wrist, Dad, expected him to start training with, Sammy, again.</p><p>
  <em>So, Dean, did.</em>
</p><p>The handicap in his ear makes it so it’s a little bit easier for people <em>and</em> monsters to sneak up on his left side. Dean also doesn’t think his wrist or shoulder will <em>ever</em> quite be the same, either, but every day he trains he gets a little bit stronger—<em>physically, anyway.</em></p><p>The final weekend of, Summer, started, today, and Bobby has made it known that he isn’t gonna have them moping about like lumps.</p><p>Dad, told Dean on the phone, yesterday, that he’ll be swooping in to pick them up in two weeks’ time.  Which, Dean, knows Sammy is sour about, since that means they will barely have time to get used to the, high school near Bobby’s house, before they are swept off to another one.</p><p>Dean spent <em>all</em> last night, trying to cheer Sammy up, by reminding him that he positively <strong><em>hated</em></strong> the school near Bobby’s house, last time he attended here, but it doesn’t seem to have had much of an effect.</p><p>So, Dean, decided to file the personal shitstorm in his head, away, and drive one of Bobby’s old junkers’ out to one of Bobby’s safehouses.</p><p> Specifically, the rickety, old cabin in the wilderness, where it could just be the two of them.</p><p>Hell, there is even a freaking lake they can cool off in, if Sammy wants to, and Dean is hoping that the change of <em>scenery (and alone time with Sammy)</em> might bring him back outta his own bout of crippling depression. Since, being around Bobby has meant they’ve had to walk on eggshells to keep this thing between them, secret.</p><p>Dean suspects that <em>Bobby</em> suspects something, <em>(why else would two growing teenage boys not mind sharing a cramped full bed?)</em> but Bobby has left Dean be for the most part, this Summer.</p><p>Even, Dad, has been dropping off Dean’s pills without expecting a <strong><em>lick</em></strong> of payment for them—not that Dean could have performed all that <em>well</em> for, Dad, right now, anyway with this busted up body of his.</p><p>Sammy lowers his duffle bag onto the dusty, tattered couch and takes a look around the age-old cabin.</p><p>Dean has to admit, it doesn’t appear that Bobby’s been here in a couple years, at least. But, Dean, has fond memories of this place. Bobby took them hunting up here more than once <em>(whenever Dad dropped them off for a few weeks here and there)</em> and Dean hopes that the nature and wildlife might be able to mentally prepare him for returning to the old routine, Dad, will expect from him, like before.</p><p>First things first, Dean, knows that if he can’t be okay with <em>Sammy</em> touching him … then he’ll <strong><em>never</em></strong> be okay with, Dad, again.</p><p>“This place could use a good cleaning,” Sam observes with a distasteful scrunch of his nose.</p><p>Dean experiences a sharp pain shoot up his recently broken wrist, as he gingerly lowers his own duffle to the wooden floorboards.</p><p>“Yeah, I suppose it does,” Dean agrees, “But I figured it’s gotta be better than sitting around Uncle Bobby’s drivin’ the poor man, nuts.”</p><p>Sam turns to face him, crossing the distance between to wrap Dean up in a loose hug.</p><p>Dean sighs into it. His left hand instinctively goes to tangle in Sammy’s overgrown mop of hair.</p><p>Sammy has been gentler with Dean by default since the <em>‘mugging.’</em> Whenever they hug its now this loose, comforting thing, instead of a bear-hug, and even the way Sam kisses him is soft and timid, like now.</p><p>Sam leans up his chin and plants a kiss on Dean’s lips that is slow and sensual, but also ripples this bustle of sensation under Dean’s skin.</p><p>“I’ve missed being able to do that, De,” Sammy admits, shyly, while peering up through his eyelashes at Dean.</p><p>Dean has to admit, it has been rather exhausting to watch their every move these past weeks. First in the hospital (hoping a nurse or doctor wouldn’t walk in on them) and then with Bobby.</p><p>It’s wondrous to have some time to themselves, again, like <em>before</em> Dean’s assault.</p><p>“Have you, Sammy-Sam? You been missin’ the way things were?” Dean uses this moment to snake a hand underneath the hem of Sammy’s cotton t-shirt and palm all-along the length of his spine.</p><p>Clearly not expecting it, Sammy, gasps and lurches forward and into Dean’s front, half-panting near Dean’s ear.</p><p>In seconds, Dean, senses the slight prod of Sammy’s sex, speared against his thigh through their clothe-layers.</p><p>“Don’t tease, De. I know you still can’t …” Sammy trails off, blooming red at the cheeks.</p><p>Dean breathes himself through the panic that rises at the thought of going all the way with Sammy again—because Dean has to get back on this horse.</p><p>He went a whole Summer without getting any—that’s practically a lifetime for him, now.</p><p>But, Dad, fucked Dean up good. The hollowed-out, dark, patches that now interweave and blockade the inside of Dean’s head have been allowed to run rampant all Summer.</p><p>Before Dad brutalized him, Dean, had finally learned to tamper down the voices—control the suicidal impulses and the voices that scream of his worthlessness—because of Sammy. Because of the good thing they had going … the really <strong><em>wrong</em></strong> thing that felt so damn right.</p><p>Dad kicked all those voices back into the forefront, where they’ve remained, unchecked, all these months.</p><p>When, Sam, brings up the places Dean <em>‘can’t,’</em> go right now, well … it sorta makes his stomach go swirly and his skin crawls a little bit.</p><p>Dean pulls away from Sammy and goes to settle down on the nearby bed. Listening to the springs creak and watches the dust kick up in the air.</p><p>Sammy’s eyes turn to those of concern, and he shifts on the balls of his feet. Evidently trying <em>(and failing)</em> to cover up the visible excitement their kissing has stirred in him.</p><p>Dean squeezes his eyes, sighs, then beckons Sammy over.</p><p>“You want the truth, Sammy?” Dean asks, knowing that <em>(at least in part)</em> he is still gonna have to tell Sammy a few white lies, but overall, Dean, means what he just said.</p><p>Sammy settles next to, Dean, not seeming to mind <em>(or even notice)</em> that more dust kicks up in the air when he does.</p><p>“Yeah, De. Always,” Sammy answers with determined eyes.</p><p>“Things have been real bad for me, Kiddo,” he relents and knows that Sammy is well <em>aware</em> of <em>(at least some)</em> of his troubles.</p><p>Dean has always prided himself on being strong enough to withstand just about anything—<em>but what Dad did?</em></p><p>That was a lot to withstand, this time around.</p><p>Sammy’s eyes go sorta somber.</p><p> “I know, De. Those <em>assholes</em> did a number, didn’t they?” Sammy grimaces at the memory.</p><p>Dean reaches out a hand, grazing Sammy through his shirt. Sometimes, <em>touching</em> Sammy calms Dean down, too—<em>and Dean needs to be calm right now.</em></p><p>He is freaking <strong><em>hell-bent</em></strong> on keeping calm, actually.</p><p>Sammy makes a hitchy, little breath and squirms on the mattress, clearly trying to keep his <em>blossoming</em> need in check.</p><p>“Yeah. <em>They</em> did,” Dean grits out, forcing himself to keep up this stupid lie about the <em>‘mugging.’</em> “I’ve been in a lot of pain from that <em>whole</em> ordeal, but I … I know I gotta stop feelin’ sorry for myself. Like Uncle Bobby said the other day, <em>‘I gotta just get movin’ along with things an’ stop mopin’ bout,’</em> you know?”</p><p>Dean is easing his touches up and under Sammy’s shirt, now. Palming and tweaking at the sensitive muscles under Sammy’s pliant tissue, without thinking much about it.</p><p>Sammy starts to pant through <em>(what must be)</em> his heightening arousal and scooches nearer until he’s half on Dean’s lap in a partial-straddle. One of his legs having moved to drape across Dean’s thigh.</p><p>“What are you sayin,’ De?” Sammy wonders, aloud.</p><p>Dean knows he hasn’t quite been making much of a point here. He sorta lost his sense, when Sammy started damn-near purring from just a couple little grazes.</p><p>In one swift motion, Dean, has Sammy straddling his lap in full. The little poke of Sammy’s need pressing, <em>hard</em>, against the beige fabric of these tight-ass shorts, Sammy, has on.</p><p>“I’m sayin’, I wanna <em>try,</em> Sammy. I’m a little bit better, now. <em>Physically</em>, that is, and I wanna try an’ be inside of you, again, Sammy—wanna <strong><em>claim</em></strong> you,” Dean breathes hot and sultry against the shell of Sammy’s right-ear.</p><p>Slick as a snake, Dean, extends down a hand and squeezes the <em>hungry</em> tip of Sammy’s pecker through the fabric.</p><p>Sammy gasps and bucks into this <strong><em>unexpected</em></strong> touch. Dean listens for those little whines that Sammy always makes when he’s horny—<em>and Sammy doesn’t disappoint.</em></p><p>Every one of these husky little sounds make Dean simmer with unignorable need, all his own. Sam grinds his hips forward and Dean gasps through the sensation it <em>stirs and riles</em> in him, like <strong><em>thunder</em></strong>.</p><p><em>Shit</em>—Dean wants to throw Sammy down and burrow his way home, so fucking bad, right now, but he’s also really aware that he’s gotta remember to take this <em>slow</em>.</p><p>Dean has to remember that panic could always grip him—<em>that fear could always take the helm.</em></p><p>“T-Then do it, De! <strong><em>Claim</em></strong> <em>me,” </em>Sammy practically begs, “I wanna <strong>feel</strong> you. If you … if it won’t <strong>break</strong> you …” Sammy mentions with a flutter of his half-lidded eyes.</p><p>Dean shivers, as he mentally ponders what his body <em>can</em> take.</p><p>Roughhousing with Sammy during <em>training</em> hasn’t broken him—<em>or reinjured his fragile wrist or shoulder</em>—so he doubts that this will, either.</p><p>Still, it’s the things, Dad, <em>said</em> that continue doing the rounds in Dean’s psyche, fucking with his ability to go through with this—<em>not necessarily his body.</em></p><p>Oh, but Sammy is so hot as <em>shit</em>, right now, and needy to a fault—and so goddamned up close and personal, that Dean can <strong><em>smell</em></strong> him.</p><p>Smell the <em>honey-scented soap</em> from the shower Sammy took this morning, and the underlying home-like scent that <strong><em>is</em></strong> pure, Sammy. And <em>that</em> single scent alone makes Dean want to carry through with this.</p><p>“Listen to <em>you</em>, Baby Boy,” Dean breathes while noticing the blown-wide pupils Sammy, now, has, “You want it <strong>bad</strong>, don’t ya? Huh? You been <strong><em>achin’</em></strong> for it, Sammy?”</p><p>Dean can sense the stringent need that’s building up in his little brother—<em>more and more by the second</em>—and it is intoxicating and thick-laced in the air.</p><p>Like this beacon of anticipation that keeps on stirring up things in-between them.</p><p>And, God, is Dean gonna wind up in hell for thinking about how <strong><em>luxurious</em></strong> it feels to be with, Sammy, but it can’t be helped.</p><p>Something with Sammy has <em>always</em> made Dean just feel, <strong><em>right</em></strong> and fulfilled, whenever he so-much-as, touches him. And right now, Dean, is still dragging the coarse tips of his fingers, all across the <em>outside</em> of Sammy’s clothes.</p><p>Sammy is <em>so</em> responsive to it.</p><p><em>Moaning, rutting, aching</em>, his way through it …</p><p>“You know I have, De … I <strong>always</strong> ache when I’m without you, too, long,” Sammy confirms.</p><p>Dean’s heart aches at the prospect of Sammy feeling all alone <em>(even while sleeping at his side each night)</em> and hates himself for being so damn <strong>broken</strong> all Summer.</p><p>Dean especially hates how gnarled-up, Dad, has driven him to be about <em>this</em> thing between them, that he’d almost come to terms with <em>(and been comfortable engaging in)</em> before all of that guilt and horror was thrown back on him, by Dad and his rage.</p><p>With calculated touches, Dean, works the stubby length of Sammy’s boy-part.</p><p>Dean has noticed the stint in Sammy’s growth down here <em>(Dean’s own cock was much further developed by Sam’s age)</em> but hasn’t said anything about it. Dean never wants, Sammy, to get self-conscious about his size. To, Dean—<em>that sorta thing doesn’t matter.</em></p><p>Sammy’s eyes roll back and plumpish-red lips part in this sexually-charged way that has, Dean, hot and achy all over—in seconds.</p><p> Sammy bucks and rolls his hips, while clutching at Dean’s shoulders—<em>and Dean feels his lower regions react like always.</em></p><p>This solid, needy bulge spurns down in Dean’s lap and he starts to forget about Dad and all the reasons why he doesn’t <strong>deserve</strong> to feel this pleasure—<em>why Dean doesn’t deserve to feel good with Sammy.</em></p><p>Pleasure—<em>love</em>—it is weakness.</p><p>Sammy is pure <strong>weakness</strong> for, Dean, but right now Dean can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>
  <em>God!</em>
</p><p>Not with Sammy looking like this—so<em>, hot and bothered-like, with sensitized skin.</em></p><p>Dean retracts his hand and before Sammy can ask him for more, Dean, has them both stripped of their clothes and Sammy pressed down into the musky and dust-covered, decorative top-quilt.</p><p>Sammy’s thighs fall open outta instinct to accommodate, Dean, in-between and Sammy’s fingers dig and clench into the muscles at Dean’s biceps.</p><p>A <em>sharp</em> pain in Dean’s shoulder, rapidly reminds him why this might not work and he hisses. Breaking the kiss, he has just gone and stolen from Sammy’s pout.</p><p><em>“Shit!”</em> he whispers.</p><p>Sammy immediately eases up on his grip and lowers his hands to Dean’s torso, apologetically.</p><p>“Sorry, De,” Sammy whispers, back. This guilty, bashful-like look on his face.</p><p>“Don’t <em>apologize</em>, Sammy-Sam. I just … I got a <em>little</em> riled-up. I just gotta get used to my body’s <strong>new</strong> aches and pains, that’s all. One day I ain’t even gonna <em>notice</em> when it happens.” Dean is saying all of this <em>more</em> for Sammy’s sake than his own.</p><p>Dean hates it when Sammy gets these apologetic-like looks on his face.</p><p>Like the one he’s wearing, <em>right now.</em></p><p>Sammy snakes a hand down between their bodies, fists Dean’s aching throb and starts to stroke him—<em>slow and steady.</em></p><p>All the uniquely pleasant sensations spurn back up in a heartbeat, spreading underneath Dean’s skin like an electric current. And, Dean, immediately forgets the pain he was in seconds ago.</p><p>All that matters, is claiming Sammy.</p><p>And, fuck—Dean, <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to claim him.</p><p>Beating down any and all of, Dad’s words that try to surface, Dean, smears a pertinent kiss over Sammy’s pout.</p><p>Using his own hand, Dean, gathers a couple oozes of slick that’s leaked outta Sammy’s eager, dick-head, and uses it as lube. Slicking-up, Sammy’s, puckered, pink hole, working him open—<em>preparing him</em>—while still kissing and avidly bucking into Sammy’s keen touch.</p><p>Dean pushes, Sammy’s, hand away and buries himself, home, in Sam in the next instant.</p><p>This need and thrill, totally taking the helm of Dean’s actions.</p><p>There’s all this fucking shame in, Dean, again, but it’s nothing like the guilt and self-hatred that Dean experiences when he lets, his, Sammy, down.</p><p>There are so many wrong things here—and so much good between the lines, that Dean finally decides he doesn’t have answers—so why keep trying to provide them?</p><p>Why keep trying to <em>make</em>, Dad, happy? Why be right, essentially?</p><p>Dean’s <em>(once-clear)</em> line between right and wrong has completely blurred outta focus, and all Dean can feel and act-on—<em>is this.</em></p><p>Whatever, <em>this</em>, is between them.</p><p>And that’s all, Dean, <strong>knows</strong>.</p><p>Dean grips the quilt underneath, Sammy, fisting the material, and panting as he works and angles his hips. Driving home—<em>again and again</em>—until Sammy is panting and keening under him, like mad.</p><p>It makes Dean <em>hotter</em> to watch while Sammy squirms and makes these content little noises—<em>and, fuck, how he’s missed them.</em></p><p>
  <em>All of them.</em>
</p><p>The perpetual sounds he usually coxes out of Sammy with his fingers, just don’t compare. Not to <strong><em>these</em></strong>, warm—<strong><em>real</em></strong>—heat and tense-stricken cries.</p><p>Dean has missed doing this <em>with</em> Sammy—and this weekend is gonna be spent with making up for this lost, <em>Summer</em>.</p><p>Dean can feel it in his bones, as he finds his release in Sammy’s tunnel—and Sammy cums<em>, (untouched)</em> all over his belly.</p><p>In the aftermath, Dean, is all trembles and aches.</p><p>It has been too long since he’s had an orgasm and all of the tension is finally easing out of his bunched-up muscles.</p><p>God, he’s been so friggin’ stressed from lack of pleasure—<em>from so much endless, miserable pain of Dad’s creation.</em></p><p>Dean is ashamed that he just rutted with Sammy on these unclean, dusty-sheets. That he couldn’t even control himself for long enough to <em>tidy</em> this cabin up a bit …</p><p>And he shows all this, by trailing hot, apologetic, kisses up the line of Sammy’s neck. Mouthing at the area, flicking his tongue out to wet the skin that’s now brimming with heightened sensitivity.</p><p>“Fuck … I didn’t realize how friggin’ <em>horny</em> I’ve been …” Dean admits in a low, cracking tone.</p><p>Sammy chuckles and blinks, lazily back up at Dean.</p><p>“You and me, both,” Sammy responds, in this dreamy-esque tone.</p><p>Dean crinkles his nose, trying to shove these relentless bouts of shame outta his head.</p><p>“This bed is <strong>filthy</strong> … I shoulda cleaned it first,” Dean observes, still feeling this extensive guilt—but Sammy just laughs.</p><p>“It’s <em>fine</em>, De. I don’t care about the state of the mattress.”</p><p>Dean brushes his nose against Sam’s and swallows around a lump.</p><p>“Well, you <strong><em>should</em></strong>, cause it ain’t right … doin’ this on a <em>filthy</em> blanket …”</p><p>Sammy laughs, again, in this melodic, mesmerizing way, that has Dean’s stomach back in knots in a second.</p><p>“I’m just glad you’re startin’ to be you, again. I dunno what I’d do if I <em>lost</em> you, De. An’ I was afraid I <em>had</em> … lost you, that is. You got that look in your eye. Like the one you used to get right before you shut me out, an’ I didn’t <em>want</em> that. To be <em>shut</em> out, I mean.”</p><p>Dean feels his heartstrings tug and is swallowed by guilt, as he thinks about the hell Sammy must have been in, these past months/ Watching, Dean, trying to grip tight to his bearings and come to terms with everything that happened. To grip tight to this resolve he has about <strong><em>this</em></strong> being the right thing for him and Sammy.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t mean to scare ya, Kiddo … Things just … they get real <strong><em>dark</em></strong> sometimes, an’ I can’t always see <em>through</em> that dark, ya know?”</p><p>Sammy rolls onto his side, effectively knocking Dean onto his side, too. Instinctively, Dean, tucks in close to Sammy and they tangle their legs and Dean winds Sammy up in his arms, tight as he can, so that they’re essentially <strong><em>breathing</em></strong> the same air.</p><p>“I know, Dean. I know what that’s like. I … I get swallowed up by <strong>darkness</strong>, too. But you gotta lemme <em>help</em> sometimes. I’m not a little kid no more, Dean. I’m in, <em>high school</em>, now. Just like you. An’ I can help.”</p><p>Dean’s heart warms from the inside out—<em>and he wishes that he could tell Sammy all of it.</em></p><p>Dean has never been so close to spilling his guts to Sammy than he is, right here and now. With those trusting, brownish-green eyes, staring up at him. With, Sammy, pouring his heart out to him and reminding him just how <em>grown-up,</em> Sam, now is.</p><p>But, Dean, doesn’t wanna be selfish. Sammy is still a kid—<em>still his kid</em>—and Dean still vehemently believes that Sammy deserves a proper, innocent, childhood.</p><p>At least when it comes to the things him and Dad get up to some nights.</p><p>Dean knows that on the road, that shit will start back up, again, and Sammy can’t know about it, ‘cause there is absolutely <em>no</em> telling what Sam would do if he found out.</p><p>Sammy doesn’t need to know the kinda monster that, Dad, can be when he’s drunk or angry.</p><p>Sammy’s witnessed, Dad, drunk and snippy at times, but that’s it. That’s the <strong>brunt</strong> of it.</p><p>Dean has never allowed, Dad, to lay a finger on Sammy and he never <em>will</em>. That’s the agreement—Sammy <strong>belongs</strong> to, Dean. Punishments, too, are up to, Dean.</p><p>And that is the way, Dean, needs things to <strong>stay</strong>.</p><p>For the first time, Dean, is thinkin’ about what things might be like when they’re <em>older</em>. When, Sammy, graduates maybe they can go off an’ hunt on their own. But, till then, Dean, has to live with Dad and Sammy, both. And he can’t give Sam more of a reason to get on Dad’s case.</p><p>Absolutely, not.</p><p>“You just did help, Sammy. We don’t gotta have a heart to heart, for you to help. That’s just not how I operate, Sammy. You know it ain’t,” Dean says, avoidant of Sammy and his <em>‘all-knowing-Winchester,’</em> trademark stare.</p><p>“That’s just what you <em>say</em>, De. But I know you like it when we talk like this. I can sense things in the air between us. I can sense the <em>ease</em> of tension that leaves you when we talk.”</p><p>Dean forces a laugh.</p><p>“All you’re feelin,’ Sammy, is my stress leavin’ after I’ve <em>cum</em>. That’s all.”</p><p>It’s a lie, but a lie that is hell-bent on <strong>protecting</strong> Sammy.</p><p>Sam just shakes his head and shoots, Dean, a smirk.</p><p>“Whatever, De. Tell yourself whatever you gotta, but I know the truth. I know you <strong><em>like</em></strong> it when we talk.”</p><p>Sammy pushes one of his legs up-between both of Dean’s, using his knee to brush at Dean’s <em>(now-flaccid)</em> need. Causing the spent thing to flex a couple times with residual attempts at erection.</p><p>Dean’s breath catches in his throat and his muscles all clench-up.</p><p><em>“Sammy …” </em>he breathes out in warning.</p><p>Sammy just keeps teasing him and peppers a slew of kisses at the base of Dean’s neck.</p><p>“Promise me that this is, <em>forever</em>, Dean,” Sammy whispers in a low husk, close to Dean’s ear, “Promise that no matter <strong>what</strong>, this is forever. That … That no matter who does what to you, that you ain’t gonna change your <strong>mind</strong> about wantin’ me.”</p><p>Dean’s insides wind-up in a ball-like clench that have his head outright spinning. It ain’t fair that Sammy gets to him like this.</p><p>Pushes a knee up between his thighs and makes him dizzy with lust—only to ask him something this, damn, important!</p><p>Damn him for doin’ this sorta thing!</p><p>Especially, because, Dean, doesn’t know if he can make this promise. Not when the things, Dad, said and did to him are still like a freaking ‘rollercoaster-of-horror-ride’ rattling around in his skull.</p><p>“Pinky-swear it, De.” Sammy extends his pinky and Dean gapes at him. They both know when the last time, they made a pinky swear was.</p><p>When, Dean, made the promise to never let Dad take Sammy, away, again.</p><p>Since then, no other promise has seemed <strong>important</strong> enough to warrant the use of pinkies to seal it.</p><p>But this time, Dean, realizes that Sammy has him—<em>right where he wants him.</em></p><p>Vulnerable and ready to dive, head-first into most anything.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Shit.</em> </strong>
</p><p>Sammy has no idea that Dean has already <strong>kept</strong> this promise, however.</p><p>
  <em>Just now.</em>
</p><p>By letting himself pull Sammy all the way back in, despite the fuckery from Dad that is still screaming at him that this <em>whole thing,</em> right here, between them, is selfish and stupid and most of all, <em>wrong</em>. Dean, still gave in and took the plunge with Sammy, again.</p><p>Sealing, Sammy, as his <strong><em>home-base</em></strong>—and Dean is just now realizing, that maybe he is the one that needs Sammy more than Sammy has <strong><em>ever</em></strong> needed him.</p><p>It’s all backwards now, and messed-up as hell—<em>but here they both are.</em></p><p>And, here, Dean, is. Ready to give Sammy <strong><em>this</em></strong> promise.</p><p>With only a slight second of hesitation—Dean, extends out his arm and seals this <em>new</em> promise, with his pinky.</p><p>Sammy’s whole face lights up and he leans in for a kiss, after. Sammy’s knee stopped teasing, Dean, at some point. And now they are locked together in this, heated, fiery kiss that has Dean in complete tatters, <em>emotionally.</em></p><p>‘Cause it has just dawned on, Dean, that despite what Dad says or does—<em>he can’t let Sammy go</em>—Dean realizes without <strong><em>his</em></strong>, Sammy, Dean is just gonna be a glorified <strong>shell</strong> of a human.</p><p>Dean can’t <strong><em>feel</em></strong> anything with anyone else. And he’s shared many, <em>many</em> beds.</p><p>Sammy <strong><em>is</em></strong> home, now.</p><p>Maybe he <strong><em>always</em></strong> was, even before Dean realized it.</p><p>
  <em>Sammy is everything.</em>
</p><p>And, Dean, <strong>never</strong> wants to lose his home-base.</p><p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But if there is one thing, Dean, should have known and held on, too, with all his heart—it was that nothing possibly lasts, forever.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxiv. somewhere memories pass.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Time passes for, Dean, like this ocean of remarkable-solace. Accompanied with tangled-up tethers of blinding-pain and streaks of something in-between. All twined up into one ball that goes on, seemingly without end.</p><p>The patches of light are easy to follow—<em>easy to track</em>—they occur, <em>(predominantly)</em> whenever Sammy is with, Dean.</p><p>Whenever, Dad, goes alone off alone on a hunt and entrusts, Sammy, to Dean.</p><p>For, Dean’s, senior year those patches become more and more sporadic and scarce.</p><p>Once, Dad, deems that Dean is back to operating at full-speed, again, <em>(as much as can be expected with his semi-faulty hearing and permanent chronic pain in his wrist and shoulder)</em> especially.</p><p>Dad, starts swooping in to pick, Dean, up on an almost regular basis. Which leaves, Sam, on his own more often (Dad always tells Dean that <em>‘Sammy’s old enough to see to himself, now’)</em> and Dean to deal with Dad and his ever-fluctuating moods.</p><p>About two months into senior year was the first time, Dad, came for Dean. And for those first couple times that Dean accompanied Dad on hunts, Dad, was uncannily distant with him.</p><p>In fact, Dad, had just silently tossed a bottle of pills to, Dean, without expecting <em>‘payment,’ </em>or <em>‘acknowledgement’</em> for them, while they were heading into their motel, one day.</p><p>Hell, Dean, was even able to sleep in the opposite queen bed, while, Dad, slept on his own, for a time.</p><p>One particular night, Dean, recalls that, Dad, finally must have caught up the nerve to climb into Dean’s bed. That night was filled with careful touches and pleas for forgiveness from alcohol-slurred lips.</p><p>Dean, had trembled at first, in fear of Dad and his fury about the seductive air, Dean, supposedly has around him—<em>but Dad stayed gentle.</em></p><p>There were no slurs of <em>‘Faggot,’</em> or <em>‘Slut,’</em> whispered in Dean’s good ear, only encouragement, coupled with gentle-love making, and a coarse-hand that jacked, Dean, off until his balls were empty and skin consumed by burning heat.</p><p>Things were different from there on out, at least for a time, anyway. Dad would try to be gentle, though it was no longer in his <strong><em>nature</em></strong> to be that way.</p><p>When the guilt faded, though, and the hunts became more frequent, Dad, brought to fruition these streaks of pain that morphed with Dean’s thoughts—<em>and still remain therein. </em></p><p> Some nights, as time went on and they were alone, Dad, would get rough and things would be said, <em>like before.</em></p><p>Others, Dad, would make Dean drink until he was <strong>dozy</strong>—<em>like when all of it first started—</em>and make love to him, sweet and sensual-like.</p><p>God—what Dad’s actions didn’t do to royally stir-up and fuck-up Dean’s head all the more.</p><p>‘Cause, after the brutalization and the broken bones and lost hearing, Dean, had finally pegged down Dad in his head. Finally, believed he grasped, everything, about Dad and how Dad felt about him—<em>but with the back and forth?</em></p><p>With the nights of pleasure—of Goddamn love and just plain <strong><em>need</em></strong>, they shared? –Well, Dean, never knows <strong><em>what</em></strong> to believe.</p><p>The light-enthralled cracks that had started to resonate in Dean—<em>that had been solely linked to Sammy</em>—were suddenly being thrust back into his time with, Dad.</p><p>And it really fucked, Dean, up.</p><p>Dean would return to, Sammy, after a hunt with Dad and try to act natural. Try to focus on schoolwork and graduation, while also dealing with Sammy and all Sammy’s needs—and keeping Sammy ignorant of what all he was <em>actually</em> struggling with which became increasingly draining the longer all this crap keeps going on.</p><p>Dean’s nerves got so bad at one point, that he made fresh cuts under his clothes a <em>multitude</em> of times in a single day. He even started pinching his arm, again, during the day, <em>(something he hadn’t done in years up till that point)</em> and popping pills and booze like they were candy and soda.</p><p>One fleck of light that came from, Dad, came on his eighteenth birthday. When Dad gifted him <em>the Impala</em>. Entrusting him with the family car, that is just as much a part of the family as Sam and Dad are, in Dean’s eyes.</p><p>When she became his, Dean, started calling her, <em>‘Baby,’</em> instead of just <em>‘The Impala,’ </em>all the time, like he used to.</p><p>It was the single-most <strong>proud</strong> moment that Dean can remember. Dad acquired his own set of wheels, leaving Sam and Dean with Baby <em>full-time. </em></p><p>Even, when they were out hunting, Dean, would follow behind, Dad, in Baby, so, that Dean could go off on his own if he needed to. In case, Sammy, had an emergency and needed Dean to go back.</p><p>Despite that freckle of light in, January, by his third semester, Dean, couldn’t keep up anymore—<em>not with constantly-changing schools and going on hunts</em>—and all the crap that went with it.</p><p>So, <em>(much to Sammy’s horror)</em> Dean, dropped-out, took his GED, and was done with school.</p><p>The way, Dean, always looked at it, is that he doesn’t really need school anyway. Not to be a hunter, like Dad is. But, Sammy, sees things differently—<em>and Dean spent days after making that decision consoling Sammy about it.</em></p><p>Once, Dean, was outta school, the majority of his time was spent on the road with, Dad, more than with Sammy.</p><p>Some weekends, Dean, would drive Baby back to Sammy and other times when, Dad, couldn’t spot any <em>good</em> cases, he’d send, Dean, back for a couple weeks here and there to be with Sammy. At times, Dad, would even work cases, alone, again, to give Dean some time off.</p><p>Time flowed differently, once school was no longer fit into Dean’s equation. The stress eased a bit, and Dean eased with it.</p><p>Right into the <em>hunting</em> life.</p><p>Dean started up seeking out hot chicks, again, soon after his senior year began—and kept sleeping with random females all across the country, wherever he went with, Dad. After getting his GED, Dean, even started doing it when he was holed-up in a hotel, while Sammy was off at school.</p><p>Dean also re-picked up his nasty habit of <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks,’</em> as a form of self-punishment. Which always left him wrecked and moody.</p><p>There was an <strong><em>endless</em></strong> cycle of time.</p><p>Time spent with Sammy, and time spent with Dad on hunts. The scale of time flowed and ebbed, like water through his fingertips.</p><p>Dean couldn’t hold onto days.</p><p>They were <em>irrelevant</em>.</p><p>The thrill of light speckles that came of time spent between two separate people, fulfilling their needs—<em>and his own</em>—came with a steep cost, but not one Dean could really see at the time. Not through the depression <em>(after a bad night where Dad would be at his nastiest)</em> and clutch of darkness that would linger with Dean for days and nights at a time.</p><p>There are little moments, Dean, remembers, though.</p><p>Dean cherishes the time he spent, teaching Sammy to drive at fifteen. Pulling, Baby, into an empty parking lot and letting Sammy take her for a spin.</p><p>There was this bone-deep pride in Dean the day, Sammy, turned sixteen and scored his own license <em>(using Baby to take his test)</em> and started begging, Dean, to let him helm the wheel.</p><p>Another highlight, was Sammy’s first hunt, which came in the summer between Sammy’s sophomore and junior years. Dean drove out with Sammy to meet, Dad, instead of dropping him at Uncle Bobby’s, like Dad instructed him to.</p><p>
  <em>(Sammy, and his strong will wasn’t having none of being left at Uncle Bobby’s alone and Dean decided to pick his battles and gave in, cause saying no to Sammy was hard as fuck by that point.)</em>
</p><p>Dean was proud when Sammy ganked his first monster. A friggin’ ghoul that killed a great deal of people, before they finally figured out who the culprit behind it all, was.</p><p>Over the years since Dad beat Dean unconscious, Dean, came close <em>(more than a few times)</em> to dying when a monster or ghost snuck up on his left-hand-side and he didn’t hear them. So, Dean, was thrilled to have an extra set of ears to make up for his half-gone one.</p><p>Once, Sammy, proved himself to, Dad, that was all it took for him to stay on the hunt with them.</p><p>Although, Dean, could tell that, Dad, wasn’t happy about having to sneak around and head out to, Baby, all Summer—<em>whenever the need struck to have Dean under him.</em></p><p>Dean was tense about the living quarters, too.</p><p>Since it meant he had to be extra cautious about touching, Sammy, with an ever-watchful eye on him.</p><p>Dean and Sam would only get time alone while researching for the case, <em>(while Dad set about holding interviews)</em> and they spent many days <em>(and nights while Dad was passed-out drunk)</em> tangled up in, Baby, together, too.</p><p>That, Summer—<em>and this last one</em>—<em>he spent on the road with Dad and Sam</em>—Dean, spent more time in the back of, Baby, than he did in any sorta motel bed.</p><p>Which was tough on Dean’s muscles—but he managed.</p><p>This whole year, Sammy, has been particularly moody. Much more eager to spend his time in school, hitting the books and studying for tests and class.</p><p>Which isn’t to say that, Dean, isn’t freaking <strong>proud</strong> of, Sammy, because he is.</p><p>Just last week, Dean, sat in the front row and cheered for his, Sammy, while he went up on that stage and collected his diploma.</p><p>Dad, was off hunting a Rugaru at the time, so he couldn’t make it, but, Dean, took Sammy out to dinner and a movie to celebrate—<em>just like a good big brother should.</em></p><p>But it’s the strange way, Sammy, has been acting <em>(especially for the past month) </em>that has had, Dean, on edge.</p><p>Every time they are alone <em>(on the weekends)</em> Sammy, has been shifty. Like he wants to tell, Dean, something—<em>but just can’t.</em></p><p>And even when they are intimate, things have felt off-kilter and not just because of the shift in Sammy’s size, either.</p><p>Dean was right about, Sammy’s growing. Sammy has sprouted up these last four years to a whopping six-foot-four. Landing at three inches taller than both Dean and Dad.</p><p>It has made things a tad awkward, because calling, Sammy, his ‘little’ brother has gotten far less feasible. Sammy is this giant, well-muscled, man, now.</p><p>Just turned, eighteen, last month, and Dean still can’t wrap his head around it. Period.</p><p>Sammy has been his kid, his responsibility for what feels like, forever, now. And that’s the way things are—<em>the way things <strong>should</strong> be.</em></p><p>But the dynamic has shifted—Sammy is capable of making his own decisions and Dean has been hoping to introduce the prospect of heading out on their own, now.</p><p>Sans-Dad.</p><p>Even though, Dean, is still loyal to Dad in a way, after all, everything Dad has done, is because he is hurting—<em>missing Mom</em>—lonely.</p><p>Dean is torn between a rock and a hard place, because Dad and Sammy don’t much get along anymore.</p><p>They <strong>fight</strong> like cats and dogs and, Dean, acts as the go-between, when the fights damn-near turn to blows.</p><p>So, something has gotta give somewhere, and Dean doesn’t know how to bring it up.</p><p>Especially not with these weird-ass vibes he keeps sensing off of Sammy.</p><p>Currently, Sammy, is asleep in their bed, and Dean is preoccupied. His mind is with, Dad, right here—<em>in Baby</em>—and Dean is very aware of the hot Kansas air, both inside and outside of Baby’s backseat.</p><p>It’s scorching enough that they stripped off their clothes and are still covered in a sheen of sweat <em>(despite it only being late-June)</em> and the heat and friction from Dad and his light thrusts, have Dean dizzy with lust.</p><p>Tonight, Dad, is going slow and easy with, Dean, the way he does when he is drunk enough to show his affections. It’s been a while since they’ve done this <em>(Dad just got in a little over a half-hour ago and roused Dean from sleep for this)</em> and maybe that’s why, Dean, is a little bit off-beat right now.</p><p><em>“Fuck,</em> you’re tight, Boy,” Dad mentions with a little chuckle and Dean blushes, furiously.</p><p>“It’s been a while …” Dean admits, trying to keep the feelings of betrayal <em>(that always accompany stolen nights with Dad)</em> buried down where they belong.</p><p>Dean hates that he does this with, Dad. Even on the nights it feels good, because, Sammy, doesn’t know.</p><p>Dad must sense the off-ness in, Dean, ‘cause he lowers a hand and starts to stoke him off, base-to-tip.</p><p>“F-Fuck!” Dean squeaks in this high-pitch, damn-near singing as his eyes roll back and Dad helps him over the edge.</p><p>It’s quick and hot—and Dean feels his seed spattering his belly, but there’s another sensation, too—and it comes quicker than quicker.</p><p>A gust of wind from Baby’s door being swung open.</p><p><em>“What the fuck?!”</em> That familiar voice that, Dean, would have known <strong><em>anywhere</em></strong> is suddenly loud and close.</p><p>Dean makes to cover himself, as Dad is yanked off of him—but it’s, too, late. Sammy sees him.</p><p>
  <em>Clear as a bell.</em>
</p><p>Covered in Dad’s cum and his own—<em>naked</em> and <strong>sinfully</strong> aroused with a look of pure, astonishment on his face.</p><p>And, Dean’s heart drops to his pelvis—<em>as his world completely blasts apart.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. part 9; the implosion of what was good.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Sam discovers the other half of this depravity Dean's been keeping from him.<br/>Stanford years.<br/>Sam is 18-22.<br/>Dean is 21-23.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>Hello Lovelies!</i><br/>I know all of you (most of you) have been waiting patiently these last few days for this installment, and it is finally here! This is told entirely from Sam's POV and ends at the pilot!!! We have made it to canon, everyone! The next installment will be entirely from Dean's POV and covering the same span of time and from there, I will be covering Canon with alterations to fit this established mess of a background I've created! Filled with plot-bunnies, and my take on Sam, Dean, and all the crap that goes on around them! I can't wait to see what you all think! I have been tweaking and editing this, trying to make it perfect for all of you, because I wanted to try to make the reactions as Sam and Dean like as possible (It is my actual pet peeve when characters venture too far (personality-wise)  from their canon counterparts) so, here is the final product!  Fingers-crossed it hits the marks I intended! Can't wait to read your reactions! Grab those tissues and enjoy, Lovelies! We're nearly there!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 9; the implosion of what was good.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I never knew I could feel</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>so much pain</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>yet be so in love with the</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>person causing it.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p>
  <em>xxv. scatters of ache bone-deep.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sam can’t remember the exact <em>second</em> he decided that he wanted to pursue college, but it was somewhere between Freshman and Sophomore year.</p><p>Over the years, Sam, has tried <em>(repeatedly)</em> to let Dean in on the fact that he wants to go—<em>badly</em>—so that he might pursue, something of a <strong>normal</strong> life, but something has <em>always</em> held him back.</p><p>
  <em>The thought of being away from, Dean.</em>
</p><p>As it is, Dean, outright gave up on graduating high school the proper way. Sure, Dean, never was one to know very much about anything—it’s a wonder sometimes, how Dean manages to work out cases while on a hunt with, Dad.</p><p>
  <em>(90 percent of the time, Dean, calls Sam for support and research so it’s really not that much of a wonder.)</em>
</p><p>Even, Dad, is smarter than Dean—<em>IQ-wise</em>—and Sam has noticed, but <strong><em>still</em></strong>.</p><p>Not deciding to do the practical thing and stick out high school? Sam is still a little sour about that. Because in his own mind, he always thought that he might be able to convince Dean to settle down with him.</p><p>Build a home, somewhere out in the country—build a damn <em>life</em> that is better than hunting things that go bump in the night.</p><p>But, Dean, is attuned to all of this whack-a-doodle crap and Sam <strong><em>knows</em></strong> it, deep down. And it has had Sam all bunched-up with these anxieties about what was gonna happen <strong>after</strong> graduation.</p><p>Especially, since it took Sam years of pleading with Dean just to get them to a point where, Dean, can<em> (somewhat) </em>accept them as they are—friggin’ <strong><em>deeply</em></strong> in love, which sounds like some kinda <em>‘chick-like phrase,’</em> but it’s their truth.</p><p>At least, it is <strong><em>Sam’s</em></strong> truth.</p><p>What it is to, Dean?</p><p>Sam figures <em>(hopes like hell)</em> that it is the same, because there have been a lot of different knots in their <em>‘happiness-path’ </em>over the years and Dean has <em>said</em> and <strong>done</strong> a hell-of-a-lot of conflicting things.</p><p>The worst of these conflicting things, is Dean’s continued willingness to go out and fuck <em>random-ass chicks.</em></p><p>It hurts, whenever, Sam, scents another on Dean’s clothes or skin—<em>it stings like hell.</em> But, Sam, lets it go, because Dean <em>struggles</em> with their sexuality. With what Dad ingrained in him, over the years about right and wrong, and Sam <em>knows</em> that.</p><p>Then, there is the fact that Dean isn’t around so much anymore.</p><p>Sam hasn’t spent more than a week <em>(during the schoolyear)</em> with, Dean, since Dean started hunting regularly with, Dad.</p><p>And Sam is left behind to worry for, Dean, all the freaking time.</p><p>And he does—<em>worry.</em></p><p>Sam worries every single time that, Dean, walks out that motel door, if he is gonna come back or not. Sam worries that Dad will just show up <em>(head down and a drunken friggin’ mess)</em> and say that Dean <strong>died</strong> on a hunt.</p><p>It scares, Sam, half to death knowing that he could always just <strong>lose</strong>, Dean—<em>at any given time.</em></p><p>That never used to be such a crippling fear in, Sam, like it is, now.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>This innate fear, <em>started</em> when, Dean, got mugged that one time. The state of his big brother in that hospital bed, made Sam wanna fucking die, <em>right there.</em></p><p>Sam can recall holding Dean’s hand while he was unconscious and hooked up to all these damn wires and machines that were breathing for him, with these purplish-dark bruises littering his face and neck—and <em>everywhere</em>, just <strong><em>freaking</em></strong> <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong>—and Sam remembers wanting to throw up.</p><p>Because in a whispered-hush, Sam, overheard one of the doctors telling Dad that there were indications that Dean had been <em>‘raped’</em> by the hooligans that attacked him. And that the trauma was so severe that he might not want to wake back up.</p><p>Sam remembers praying to God to help Dean open his eyes. To the angels—<em>to whomever</em>—that they help wake up his big brother.</p><p>And by some sorta miracle Dean did wake up.</p><p>But, Dean, has never been the same since that day. It was a long time <em>(that whole summer)</em> until Dean finally let Sam back in.</p><p>There were a lot of quiet nights spent at Uncle Bobby’s under the cover of darkness, where Dean had kissed him <em>(soft and slow-like)</em> while using a hand to get Sam off.</p><p>Dean had been quiet, a lot, and would sit for long spans of time, just staring into blank subspace and Sam had often wondered <strong><em>where</em></strong> Dean went when he did that.</p><p>Because, he wouldn’t always come <strong>back</strong> right away, if Sam interrupted him. It was like, Dean’s mind, wouldn’t <strong><em>allow</em></strong> him to.</p><p>Sam never pushed for, Dean, to let him be on top, after that. Not once has he even mentioned it in <em>four years.</em></p><p>After what Dean went through, Sam, is just grateful that his big brother is up and walking, about. That he can still even fathom <em>existing</em> after enduring something so damn horrible.</p><p>If, Dean, wonders why Sam stopped asking for dominance over their shared tussles he doesn’t <em>say</em> anything. They’ve been all <em>love</em> in the calming shadows of darkness, ever since.</p><p>Sam has watched, Dean, become a full-fledged man, capable of his own decisions <em>(and Dean chose hunting)</em> while, Sam, has developed and grown into his own full-muscled body.</p><p>At times, Sam, has noticed in training <em>(and on the hunts he shared with Dean and Dad over those last two Summers) </em>that Dean still struggles with his healed wrist and almost completely <em>deaf</em>, left ear, but he tries to keep it under wraps.</p><p>Sam has noticed, though. Sam has a keen eye for Dean and his troubles.</p><p>It is the fact that, Dean, <em>needs</em> Sam to have his back—that has Sam on edge about heading off to college, come Fall.</p><p>Sam sent all of his college applications, back in October and left his <em>‘home address’ </em>as Pastor Jim’s home.</p><p>Stanford was Sammy’s <em>choice</em> school. It has one of the best programs in the country for wannabe lawyers and Sam desperately wants to be one.</p><p>And, sure enough, when Sam called-up, Pastor Jim, he confirmed that Sam got in. Not only that Sam got in, but that he was accepted into an <em>early-admissions program.</em> Which means, Sam, would have to leave for, California, <em>next <strong>week</strong>.</em></p><p>Ever since, Sam, has been overwhelmed and antsy, because a huge part of him wants to <em>stay</em> with, Dean, and the <em>other</em> part wants to go to California.</p><p>Sam has bit his nails past the quick and made fresh crescent shapes on his palms from digging in his nails, too deep. Something, he hasn’t done in <strong>years</strong>.</p><p>Yesterday, however, <em>(last evening to be exact)</em> Dean, did something that changed Sam’s mind.</p><p>Dean took Sam out for a drive, parked on the grass in a field, and sprawled out on the Impala hood with him.</p><p>God, it had been <strong><em>ages</em></strong> since they’d done that. Must have been since they were <strong>little</strong> that, Dean, took him out to a field <em>just</em> to stargaze.</p><p>They drank beer, talked about nothing and everything, and just <strong>existed</strong> together. Pressed real and warm in this <em>blissed-out</em> state.</p><p>And, Sam, decided—<em>then and there</em>—that he wants to <strong>stay</strong> with, Dean.</p><p>That college can <em>wait</em> … that life outside of, <strong>Dean</strong>, can wait.</p><p>Sam spent all of <em>today</em> thinking about it.</p><p>Thinking about blowing off college and his heart does feel a little <strong>lighter</strong>. Because before there were thoughts of college, there has always—<em>only</em>—been Dean.</p><p>This handsome, sensitive older brother that has always shown his love and devotion through little touches and heart-wrenching stares.</p><p>And, Sam, doesn’t think he can leave this <em>thing</em> they have and <strong>actually</strong> survive.</p><p>How does one survive <em>without</em> their other half? Because, Sam, was forced to once <em>(at Uncle Bobby’s) </em>and it didn’t go so well.</p><p>Dean was troubled tonight, though. And Sam isn’t sure why, but it didn’t feel like the right time to bring <em>any</em> of this up. To bring up the fact that he <em>ever</em> even thought about leaving.</p><p>Instead, Sam, tucked in close to Dean after watching crap TV and eating cereal for dinner, and went to sleep.</p><p>Hopeful about talking to, Dean, in the <em>AM.</em></p><p>That is until the whisper of Dad’s voice roused him from sleep.</p><p>It wasn’t a lot, really. Sam was in a light sleep <em>(and has been sleeping lighter than he used to lately because of all his anxiety over potentially leaving)</em> so when Dean clamors out of bed and follows, Dad, outside—Sam is thrown back in his mind to a time <em>before</em>, Dean, accepted them for what they are.</p><p>A time when Sam questioned Dean about getting in the Impala, late one night with, Dad. Sam remembers <em>(in bits and pieces)</em> Dean’s unnervingly <em>vague</em> and <em>jumpy-like</em> response.</p><p>Sam tucked it away in the back of his mind and chose to forget about it—but now<em>, he can’t.</em> Sam assumed that it was just a private conversation of sorts <em>(not something done very often)</em> but there is a knot in his stomach, right now, telling him something is off about it, now.</p><p>Why would, Dad, wake Dean up from sleep just to head outside without a word?</p><p>And for, Dean, to just get up without a fuss and follow behind him?</p><p>That’s even fucking <em>weirder</em>.</p><p>Sam throws off the covers after a minute of thinking about all of this and climbs out of bed.</p><p>He goes to the window and peeks out to see Dad’s truck is next to Dean’s Impala, but the Impala is moving. Not just moving—<strong><em>shaking</em></strong><em> actually.</em></p><p>Sam’s heartbeat races as he goes through all these different scenarios in his head.</p><p>Is Dad punishing Dean for something? Is that how Dean keeps showing up with all these marks and bruises that Sam knows that <strong><em>he</em></strong> didn’t leave on him over the years?</p><p>After, Sam, watched those guys beat up on Dean in an alleyway all those years ago, he hasn’t questioned the<em> ‘why’ </em>behind strange marks on Dean’s skin—<em>but maybe he should have been.</em></p><p>Sam dresses, quickly, slips on his shoes at the door and heads outside. It’s warm out here and it’s a dead sorta-heat that makes Sam groan to sense on his face as he steps out.</p><p>The air-conditioned room is much preferable to this damn heat.</p><p>Sam walks until he is standing just outside the backdoor of the Impala, peeking in through the slightly-steamed window-glass—and he can’t help the surge of betrayal that claws through his belly at what he is seeing.</p><p>Dad is on top of Dean—<em>and not just on top beating him like Sam thought</em>—No, Dad, is <strong><em>thrusting</em></strong> against Dean.</p><p>The Impala is rocking and quaking back and forth with this motion that Sam knows <em>all-too-well. </em>Because, Dean, has pinned him just like Dad has Dean pinned, now, <strong>countless</strong> times and claimed him soft and slow or rough and needy—and the Impala <strong><em>always</em></strong> rocks under them, just the same, as it is right damn now.</p><p>At first, Sam, thinks Dad might be <strong><em>raping</em></strong>, Dean, but it doesn’t appear that way—<em>not really.</em></p><p>
  <em>(Regardless, it occurs to Sam that Dean could throw Dad off if he really wants to. Fight his way out from underneath Dad—Dean is just as adept at fighting as Dad.)</em>
</p><p>Not especially when, Dad, bends down and their lips collide with these smolder-like kisses that have the same noises falling outta Dean that Sam thought were solely reserved for him—<em>for <strong>their</strong> nights together.</em></p><p>Fucking strangers, as a one-off, is one thing, but <strong><em>Dad?!</em></strong></p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Freaking, Dad?!</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Dean has been letting, Dad, screw him out here? In the back of the Impala like some sorta twisted <strong><em>secret</em></strong> love?!</p><p>Sam has to stop his thoughts before he fucking <strong>loses</strong> it!</p><p>Throwing open the door to the Impala, Sam, grips the back of Dad’s shoulders and yanks him outta the backseat—<em>right off of Dean</em>—and launches him to the pitch-black asphalt, where he lands unceremoniously with a hard <em>‘thud.’</em></p><p><em>“What the fuck?!”</em> Sam shouts, through his swirling thoughts.</p><p>Dean tries to cover himself but Sam blinks in pure anger and hurt as he witnesses the <strong><em>seed</em></strong> that coats, Dean’s abdomen. And not just the seed—but the shiny, horn-headed necklace that Sam gifted, Dean, one Christmas, shinning around Dean’s neck.</p><p>Sam doesn’t know why, but seeing Dean under, Dad, with <strong><em>that</em></strong> necklace?!</p><p>A token of their love, still on? It makes Sam bristle.</p><p><em>“Sammy!”</em> Dean has his mouth hanging open and this desperate pleading stare in his eyes, as he hurries to shove on his clothes one article at a time. Not seeming to care that it coats them in a mixture of Dad’s and Dean’s own <strong><em>seed</em></strong> to do so.</p><p>Sam’s ever-weak stomach gives a lurch and he vomits on the asphalt. Trying to get this damn image of Dad and Dean the hell outta his head!</p><p>Dad is back on his feet by the time, Sam, finishes being sick and has also tugged on his clothes, haphazardly with this steely glare in his eyes, that would have <strong><em>once</em></strong> stricken fear in Sam, but now only disgusts him even more.</p><p>“Listen, Sam,” Dad starts to say <em>calmly</em>. Like he thinks he is just gonna give some kinda <strong><em>lecture</em></strong> and Sam is supposed to just settle back and listen to it!</p><p><em>“Fuck you, Dad!</em> I don’t wanna hear whatever disgusting <strong>bullshit</strong> you have to say! I really don’t, <em>fucking,</em> care!” Sam yells, not giving two-shits, that it is currently the middle of the night, and that any of the other motel guests might hear—Sam can’t think about <em>that,</em> right now.</p><p>Any and all <strong><em>sense</em></strong> is freaking gone outta his head.</p><p>All he can see is Dad on top of Dean! On top of <strong><em>his</em></strong> Dean!</p><p>“Lower your <em>voice</em>, Boy! You’ll wake up the Goddamned guests!” Dad hisses through his teeth with this fucking death-stare that makes Sam want to beat his <strong><em>face</em></strong> in.</p><p><em>“Let them hear!</em> Let them <strong><em>all,</em></strong> fucking, hear what you’ve been doing with your <strong>son</strong>!” Sam continues to yell, not much caring if one of them calls the cops—<em>he hopes they do.</em></p><p>Dean is crying by this point. Sniffling, with this sorry-ass look on his face that also has Sam feeling sick, straight down to his core.</p><p>“Sammy, please … Listen to, Dad …” a very uncharacteristically gentle tone comes outta, Dean, the likes of which, Sam hasn’t heard since they were both little.</p><p>“Listen to, <em>Dad?!</em> Are you fucking out of your Goddamned, <strong>mind</strong>?!” Sam balls his hands into tight fists, and takes two steps toward, Dean, which has Dean shrinking back like he’s afraid Sam is gonna hit <em>him</em>, next.</p><p>And maybe he <strong>should</strong>—<em>Dean would deserve it.</em></p><p>Sam doesn’t know <strong>what</strong> he is capable of right now—<em>he feels really fucking dangerous</em>—damn <strong>lethal</strong>. And he wants someone to pay—to pay for tearing apart the fake-ass illusion of happiness he’s lived in all these years.</p><p>“An’ you got room to <strong>talk</strong>, Boy?” Dad dares to say to Sam, next. “You think I don’t <strong><em>know</em></strong> you let him fuck you, Sam?”</p><p>Dean stares up at Dad with pure-<strong><em>horror</em></strong> etched into his face. And Sam realizes, Dean, <em>really</em> never told Dad about the two of them—though of course Dad would have found out for himself.</p><p>Dad isn’t stupid.</p><p>“Yeah, I know, Boy. You ain’t a good liar—never <strong><em>have</em></strong> been—never will be.”</p><p>To Dean’s credit, he does look crestfallen over this news—but Sam doesn’t care about that, right now.</p><p>In fact, Sam, doesn’t think—<em>he throws a punch, instead.</em></p><p>It collides with Dad’s cheek and he feels the solid bone meet his adrenaline-riddled knuckles and doesn’t even <strong><em>feel</em></strong> it, through this calamitous high.</p><p>Dad spits out blood and laughs—<em>actually fucking laughs!</em></p><p>And that pisses Sam off all the more!</p><p>Sam charges at Dad and before he knows it, they are all-out fighting on the rough, unforgiving asphalt in this stupid motel parking lot.</p><p>God, it feels damn good to beat this smug bastard!</p><p>He’s wanted to punch Dad for a long time, but has never had the <strong><em>gall</em></strong> <em>(or all this adrenaline pumping through him) </em>to help compel him to do it.</p><p>And Dean has always stopped him <em>with ‘Don’t make, Dad, angry, Sam,’</em> and <em>‘Just let it go, Sammy,’</em> whenever Dad did or said something <strong><em>cruel</em></strong> or <em>messed-up,</em> like he almost <strong>always</strong> does.</p><p>This time, nothing Dean could possibly say would have stopped this fight!</p><p>Not when it starts to sink in just how <strong><em>long</em></strong>, Dad, has been sleeping with Dean.</p><p>God! It must have been since they were little <strong>kids</strong>!</p><p>And that hurts Sam <em>worse</em> than even Dean’s betrayal, because suddenly it all makes <em>sense!</em></p><p>Dean not wanting to allow, Sam, to take the lead when they are intimate. Dean being so damn <strong><em>afraid</em></strong> of Dad all these years. Falling into line like a <em>‘good little soldier’ …</em></p><p>So much makes sense that it <strong>hurts</strong>!</p><p><em>“Stop! Stop!</em> <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong><em>!”</em></p><p>Sam can hear Dean through the thumping of his heartbeat in his ears—but he doesn’t care. He wants to do <strong><em>this</em></strong> first—wants to have a <strong>crack</strong> at, Dad, first!</p><p>They wrestle around and Sam gets in a few good hits, kicks, and punches—<em>but so does, Dad. </em>And Sam feels Dean wrestle Dad off of him at some point, and comes out of this head-rush of adrenaline long enough to stand, back-upright, on his own.</p><p><em>“How long, Dad?!” </em>Sam asks a few minutes later, while still catching his breath and spitting out blood from his cut-up mouth.</p><p>Sam’s lip is busted-open and bleeding, along with a scale of other injuries, but Sam can’t be bothered with that right now.</p><p>He just wants to hear the disgusting <em>truth</em> out of Dad’s own mouth, for himself.</p><p>It’s a miracle that no one called the cops, yet. But to be honest this is a shitty, rundown place as it is, and those staying here are probably used to run-of-the-mill fights in the parking lot. That’s probably just a <em>‘normal Wednesday,’ </em>to these types of people.</p><p>“How long, <strong><em>what</em></strong>, Boy?”</p><p>“How long have you been <em>hurting</em> him? Huh? I’ve <em>seen</em> under Dean’s clothes! I fuckin’ <strong>know</strong> about the filth you’ve left <em>under</em> them!”</p><p>Dean is standing with his head bowed, tear-filled eyes and is trembling, full-scale, <em>head-to-toe.</em></p><p>Dad’s eyes twinkle with this sick enjoyment that has Sam’s skin crawling.</p><p>God! That fucking look changes Sam’s mind right here—<em>now</em>—he is getting the fuck away from his <em>toxic-ass</em> family.</p><p>Dean, too—<em>as soon as he can.</em></p><p>“You think I started in on <strong><em>him</em></strong><em>?”</em> Dad asks and Sam clenches his jaw. Glancing between Dean and Dad, rapidly.</p><p>“’Course you did! You ruin <em>everything</em>, Dad! You always <strong>have</strong>,” Sam reasons—though something about Dean’s <em>silence</em> tells him he shouldn’t assume anything about this sick, messed-up situation he’s found himself in.</p><p>“Dean climbed into <strong><em>my</em></strong> bed, Boy. Kissed me, talkin’ ‘bout replacin’ your <strong>Mom</strong>. Dean is the one that started <strong><em>all</em></strong> this, I wanted him to have a <em>childhood</em>, but he wanted <strong><em>this</em></strong>. He’s a little <strong>slut</strong> that’ll sleep with <strong><em>anything</em></strong> that moves. Ain’t that <em>right</em>, Boy?”</p><p>Sam thinks he is gonna be sick, again. Especially when he sees this <em>guilty-ass</em> expression on Dean’s face.</p><p>It’s the same one, Dean, used to reserve for <strong><em>after</em></strong> he touched, Sam. Back when they were <strong>little</strong>.</p><p>Hell, Dean, sometimes <strong><em>still</em></strong> gets this look after they finish screwing.</p><p>This damn <em>guilt</em> that resides in, Dean, is something that Sam has been fighting against all his <strong>life</strong>, with Dean and now he understands the, <em>‘why,’</em> behind it.</p><p>And, God, he wishes he didn’t.</p><p>Dean wipes away his falling tears and steps toward, Sam.</p><p>Sam takes a step back—The last thing he wants is Dean to <strong><em>touch</em></strong> him … Not after seeing those same hands touching, Dad, in a <em>sensual</em>, <strong>alluring</strong> sort of way.</p><p>“God. He’s telling the truth, isn’t he? He’s <strong><em>actually</em></strong> telling the truth.” Sam wipes tears from his own eyes—not even realizing he’s been shedding them, all this time.</p><p>It makes sense though, since his heart just got fucking <strong>broken</strong> to smithereens by the one person, he thought he could trust not to do that—<em>ever.</em></p><p>“Sammy—” Dean tries to reach out, again, but Sam pulls away, again.</p><p>“No, Dean!” Sam snaps, “All those times you would <strong><em>stop</em></strong> touchin’ me. Make me all <em>fucked-up</em> inside and go off with Dad for weeks on end. Told me it was the <strong><em>worst</em></strong> damn thing to let another man on <strong><em>top</em></strong> of me … All those fucking times I <em>asked</em> you—<em>goddamn begged you</em>—to let me be on top and you let <strong><em>him</em></strong>, do it?! You let, Dad, have a part of you, that even <strong><em>I’m</em></strong> not worthy enough to have!”</p><p>Dean is close to sobbing (<em>and Sam can’t remember ever seeing Dean this distraught)</em> but Sam can’t understand why Dean is the one sobbing right now!</p><p>If anyone should be sobbing—<em>it’s Sam!</em></p><p>“That’s not—this isn’t like <em>that</em>, Sam! I did this for <strong><em>you</em></strong><em>!”</em></p><p>Sam laughs through his tears—<em>through his pain</em>—through <strong>everything</strong>.</p><p>“Stop! Just fuckin’ stop, Dean! I don’t wanna hear you try an’ justify <strong>any</strong> of this! Cause it can’t be justified—<em>period,” </em>Sam insists.</p><p>“Please, Sam! It’s not <strong>love</strong>—It’s a <strong><em>deal</em></strong> I made—”</p><p>“I don’t care <strong><em>what</em></strong> it is, Dean! It’s fucking <em>hypocritical</em>! You’re a fucking <strong>hypocrite</strong> and you lied to <em>me</em> about it! So many freakin’ times! To <strong><em>me</em></strong>, Dean!”</p><p>Dad has been standing this whole time, watching the two of them go at it. Sam can feel, Dad’s, eyes on them both and he hates it.</p><p>
  <em>He hates <strong>this</strong>.</em>
</p><p>“You know what?! Fuck, <strong><em>both</em></strong>, of you. I applied to Stanford. And I got <em>in!</em> I thought about staying—<em>rejecting their acceptance</em>—I was gonna tell you <strong>tomorrow</strong>, Dean. But, now? <em>I’m going.</em> Because <strong>fuck</strong> this!”</p><p>Dean stops in his tracks and Dad’s face turns to one of pure rage-fueled anger.</p><p>“You, <em>what?!</em> The <strong><em>hell</em></strong> you are!” Dad roars.</p><p>Dean’s eyes have gone wide and he looks like a Goddamn, kicked puppy.</p><p>“You … You’re gonna <strong><em>leave</em></strong><em>?”</em> Dean’s voice makes this cracking-noise that has Sam’s stomach turning <em>(because deep-down Sam will always, freaking, love Dean and even though he’s pissed Sam knows the brunt of tonight will hit him much, much later)</em> and he wants to scream.</p><p>“I’m <strong>eighteen</strong>, Dad! I can do whatever the fuck I wanna do! You can’t <strong><em>stop</em></strong> me!”</p><p>Dad surges at him and this time, Dean, throws himself in-between.</p><p>“Don’t fight! No more <strong>fighting</strong>! <em>Please!”</em> Dean shouts and Sam decides against going for it, anyway.</p><p>Because <strong><em>why?</em></strong></p><p>He’s getting the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> out of dodge, <strong><em>anyway</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>Tonight.</em>
</p><p>He isn’t gonna spend <strong><em>one</em></strong> more night here, where Dean can try and seduce him into staying. Sam knows the seductive qualities Dean has <strong><em>always</em></strong> retained—he just never imagined in a million years that Dean would use them on <strong><em>Dad—o</em></strong><em>f all people!</em></p><p><em>“Fine.</em> No more fighting, Dean. Besides, there ain’t <strong><em>nothing</em></strong> left to be said, <em>is there?”</em></p><p>Leaving Dean and Dad with those words, Sam, slammed back into their motel room to pack up his things.</p><p>The tortured look lingers on Dean’s face when Sam said it—<em>will stick with Sam for the <strong>rest</strong> of his life.</em></p><p>Twenty minutes later, when Sam finishes-up his packing and Dean is silently seeing-to Dad’s injuries with a somber, uneasiness that makes Sam want to <em>rethink</em> staying here, Sam, heads for the motel door and it’s, <em>Dad</em>, <strong>not</strong> <em>Dean</em> that pipes-up behind him.</p><p>“You walk out that door, Boy, don’t you <strong><em>ever</em></strong> come back,” Dad says with this iciness in his tone that chills, Sam, to the bone.</p><p>Sam turns back with an air of pure-hatred and says, “What makes you think I would <strong>ever</strong> want to see <em>either one</em> of you, again, <strong><em>anyway</em></strong>, Dad?”</p><p>Dad’s face stays unreadable, but Dean displays another glance laced with this undeniably-<strong><em>tortured</em></strong> anguish that lodges in Sam’s chest—<em>and stays there the whole night, after.</em></p><p>Those are the last words, Sam, says, before he walks out—<em>and doesn’t look back.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxvi. things that just won’t die.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sam processes his emotions <em>(the shock more-like)</em> of everything that went-down that night—<em>in fragments.</em></p><p>At first, Sam, was too damn busy to process so much as that <em>broken</em> look on Dean’s face when he walked out. Because, Sam, had to concern himself, predominantly, with hitching rides off of cars on the freeway, and picking pockets for <strong>cash</strong>.</p><p>Sometimes, if Sam was lucky one of those that picked him up, offered him some cash with a smile. Usually, all he had to do was tell the truth, <em>(he was headed to the first day of the rest of his life—Stanford)</em> and on those nights, Sam, would sleep in a motel.</p><p>Sam took his cell phone with him when he packed, <em>(Dean bought it for him on his birthday) </em>in case of emergencies, and by the third day, Sam, had almost a hundred missed calls <em>(all from Dean)</em> and his voicemail-box was full.</p><p>The cell phone was crap and didn’t get reception most places, but it was better than not having one at all.</p><p>Sam ignored the messages from, Dean, deciding it was better if he <em>didn’t</em> listen to them. They were probably all from a very drunk—<em>and/or</em> <strong>considerably</strong> doped up on painkillers, Dean, anyway.</p><p>If, Sam, had had a car of his own it would have taken him two days to drive to California from Kansas, but instead it took him four days of hitchhiking to make it there.</p><p>Sam settled in <em>(best he could)</em> given the various nightmares that plagued him over the first couple weeks.</p><p>It was the loneliness and the image of Dean sprawled underneath, Dad, with parted pinkish-red lips and aroused moans falling outta him, along with that special necklace glinting on Dean’s bare chest, that haunted, Sam.</p><p>If Dad had held Dean down and forced him, Sam, could have stomached it—<em>but it was the pure, unfaltering enjoyment in Dean’s eyes</em>—and the leaked seed on Dean’s abdomen that made it all so cut and dry for, Sam.</p><p>Dad—<em>repulsive and vile as he is</em>—was telling the truth.</p><p>Dean, seduced <strong><em>him</em></strong>—not the other way around.</p><p>Just like, Sam, always knew <em>(when he hesitated about going off to college)</em> it was harder than fuck to exist without his other half.</p><p>Because even though, Dean, went behind his back <em>(all those damn years)</em> and betrayed him—<em>Sam still fucking loved Dean.</em></p><p>It wasn’t even a possibility for Sam to just shut down all of those emotions, he harbored for, Dean, all his life—<em>just like that.</em></p><p>But the anger had outweighed the love he still felt—and the betrayal was well-past bone-deep. Sam doesn’t think that the betrayal can ever be mended, or forgotten. No matter how much time is allowed to pass—<em>and time does, pass.</em></p><p>If, but at a slow crawl.</p><p>Sam spent his first weeks at college in the between of crippling depression <em>(where he craved to exist in only the darkest corners of his dorm room in bed)</em> and the pressure of difficult classes.</p><p>The worst thing of all—<em>was the horniness.</em></p><p>After years of having, Dean, at his side to take care of him at night <em>(and even when Dean wasn’t there Sam could tamp down the horniness by willing the week to pass and Dean would show up and spend time getting all the week’s frustrations out of him)</em> there was, only, <em>just him.</em></p><p>And it was impossible <strong>not</strong> to think of, Dean, whenever he would try to <em>‘clear out the pipes,’</em> the way, Dean, taught him to, years prior. Because, Dean, was always the one he’d pictured every time before.</p><p>And picturing, Dean, after he caught, Dean, with Dad? Well … it always meant that he’d wind up with the <em>image</em> of Dad and Dean creeping in—and it would <strong>kill</strong> his mood.</p><p>Kill his <em>peace</em>—and shatter his damn heart to smithereens all over, again.</p><p>Yeah, the <em>horniness</em> was the <strong><em>worst</em></strong>.</p><p>And, Sam, wasn’t like, Dean, he couldn’t just head out to some sleazy bar and pick up <em>‘chicks,’</em> just like that. Sam had to have a connection when intimate—as it was, up until that point, Sam, had only <strong><em>ever</em></strong> been with Dean.</p><p>Sam wanted to call, Dean, a hundred times with the cell phone <em>(he still had)</em> but had tucked away in one of his drawers.</p><p>More than once in those first weeks and months, Sam, even thought about swiping a shitton of pills <em>(from his obnoxiously oblivious dormmate that kept trying to be his friend)</em> and downing them all, just to put an end to all of the hurt and anguish he felt on a daily basis.</p><p>But something always held him back—<em>and Sam didn’t know why.</em></p><p>Sam still marked-up his palms with digs of his nails into them. Picked-up a razor-blade and made cuts into his flesh, until there were <em>oodles</em> of scars to be seen, all over, but he couldn’t go far enough to <strong><em>end</em></strong> his poor, pathetic existence.</p><p>To part with the taint that was in his blood—<em>that stemmed from Dad and Dean</em>—and so much else that Sam didn’t want to think about, ever.</p><p>So many times, Dean, would use his seductive prowess to soothe Sam into ignoring the bits and pieces he was witnessing of what was actually going on.</p><p>So many <em>damn</em> times, Sam, remembered being captivated by his big brother—loving, Dean, more than breathing.</p><p>Maybe, Dean, was just <strong>sick</strong>.</p><p>Maybe, Sam, should have listened when, Dean, told him that they <em>couldn’t</em> be lovers—that that sorta thing couldn’t <em>work</em> for them.</p><p>Sam wondered—<em>and wondered often</em>—since he left, if Dean really told him those things, because all of what they were <em>(all of what Dean had always done by touching and soothing, Sam, in the beginning) </em>had all been Dean’s way of <strong>manipulating</strong> him.</p><p>Sam struggled—<em>still struggles</em>—to work out the, Dean, that he knew, versus the one that he caught with, Dad, that night.</p><p>There were—<em>are</em>—so many questions, and Dean’s words that night: <em>‘I did this for you!’</em> like that would make it all make sense.</p><p>Like it would make, Sam, understand how something so depraved, could ever be done <strong><em>for</em></strong> him. Some sorta ‘<em>deal,’</em> with, Dad?</p><p>Sam has been over all of this in his head—<em>so many damn times. </em></p><p>So many, that he’s lost <strong>count</strong>.</p><p>And the more he thinks about it, all, the more his damn head just freaking aches.</p><p>
  <em>Two years.</em>
</p><p>It has been, <em>almost</em>, two years, since the night he left.</p><p>Sam has spent all that time, buried in his studies, trying like hell to forget what he needs to forget to keep living his <strong>pathetic</strong>, excuse for a life, that he has been.</p><p>It’s his <em>twentieth</em> birthday, tonight, and it’s the second he has spent alone.</p><p>Tonight, something compelled him to use the fake ID, Dean, got him at sixteen to drink at one of the local bars. And all of this shit, has come back up.</p><p>There are fresh cuts under his shirt sleeves that have left dried blood on the sleeve of his brownish-tan, jacket and crescent-shapes that are now a permanent presence on his palms from skin on top of skin being dug into, until the deeper layers of his epidermis healed with the indents in <em>place</em>.</p><p>Birthdays are hard, now, because Sam used so spend them with, Dean. Dad couldn’t be bothered to show up <em>(most of the time)</em> Sam thinks the last might have been his <em>eleventh</em>, but can’t be sure.</p><p>But, Dean, always tries to make it special. Scrounge up money for something Sam wanted, like <em>‘The</em> <em>Simpsons,’ </em>handheld game, that Sam still has in his stuff, somewhere.</p><p>It’s a lingering memory from a time he longs to forget—<em>but can’t.</em></p><p>This bartender <em>(female and brunette)</em> has been wearily pouring him drinks all night. Watching him get drunker and drunker—<em>and Sam knows she’s gonna cut him off, soon.</em></p><p>Hell, he can’t barely walk—so, thank God he didn’t <strong>drive</strong> here.</p><p>Sure enough, just as he signals for another shot of whiskey, she saunters over with a concerned frown and says, “Sorry, Hun. I don’t need ya, passing out on me. I think you’ve had <strong>enough</strong>.”</p><p>Sam groans inwardly <em>(and outwardly)</em> and says, “Can’t ya give a guy a break? It’s my <em>birthday …”</em> his words come out all slurred and tired, and she looks sympathetic.</p><p>“One more, but that’s <strong>it</strong>, Sugar. And pay, <em>first,”</em> she extends her hand and he slaps his last twenty into her outstretched palm.</p><p>Sam has worked a few odd jobs to make money since landing at college. More recently, he landed one at the local, <em>Gas N’ Sip.</em></p><p> Sam watches her pour a generous amount in his glass and flash him a gentle smile. “There ya go. And <em>Happy Birthday, </em>Hun.”</p><p>Sam grimaces for a second and downs it, allowing the burn to singe his throat and settle in his stomach. It is a rare occasion when, Sam, drinks—which is just another way that he’s not anything like, Dean.</p><p>His weak stomach will probably have all of this shit coming back up on him at some point, tonight—but for now, it is helping him <em>forget</em> how alone he feels.</p><p>With a final sigh, Sam, clinks the glass down on the bar, rises from his stool, and stumbles out into the night.</p><p>The slight nip in the air is usual for, May, and Sam shivers even with his jacket on, and his hands tucked in the pockets.</p><p>It is a few minutes’ walk to make it back to his dorm and Sam is grateful that his roommate isn’t gonna be there for the next couple days.</p><p>Brady is off with family for the <em>week (having finished his semester early) </em>which is fine with, Sam.</p><p>He <strong><em>hates</em></strong> his birthday, now. So, it is best if he is alone, for it.</p><p>By the time, Sam, stumbles into his dorm room, he is so intoxicated that he just wants to crash and the room feels like it’s <strong>spinning</strong>.</p><p>“Sammy,” that familiar voice that, Sam, swore he never wanted to hear, again, sounds in the air the second he stumbles inside—and God if it doesn’t make his insides <strong><em>ache</em></strong> and turn to mush in a second-flat.</p><p>Because he’s drunk right now—and it’s been, too, damn long of dealing with the <em>trauma</em> behind the reasons <strong><em>why</em></strong> he’s alone.</p><p>Sam wonders if it is just a hallucination, after all, he has had an awful lot to drink and his head isn’t exactly, <em>right</em>, right now.</p><p>But—even through the dark, in the dim moonlight showing in through the blinds, Sam, can see him.</p><p>Clear as day, with a bit of stubble on his jaw <em>(that wasn’t there before)</em> and looking like hell dragged him down and shot him out—<em>but </em>it,<em> <strong>is</strong>, Dean.</em></p><p>Sam would know his big brother, anywhere.</p><p>“What the hell’re you doin’ here …” Sam manages to say through his jumbled-up thoughts in his head, dropping his keys in the bowl near the door.</p><p>Sam wonders how long, Dean, has been waiting here … in the freaking dark no-less.</p><p>Sam shuffles over to the light switch, trying to flick it on but, Dean, walks to him and stops him. Pulling him back and away from the door and the wall where the light switch is.</p><p>And it’s like fire and ice burns straight through his layers of clothes, all at once, and singes him with this damned <strong><em>ache</em></strong> that has been there, ever since <strong><em>that</em></strong> night.</p><p>It never burned out—<em>never can really burn out</em>—but damn if he doesn’t wish that it would.</p><p>“Don’t, Sammy,” Dean whispers and it’s with this thick, husk-like tone that makes Sam’s <em>balls</em> desperately churn.</p><p>Fuck—<em>it isn’t fair that Dean just showed up like this</em>—and of all the times he could have done it, it <strong>had</strong> to be, now … tonight!</p><p>“Why the hell <em>not …”</em> Sam slurs and Dean lets go of him, having dragged them both halfway towards Sam’s full-size bed.</p><p>“’Cause I don’t wanna sober you up, Sammy. I … I saw you’d been drinkin’ an’ I <strong>figured</strong>—”</p><p>“What? What’d you <em>figure</em>, Dean? That me bein’ drunk would somehow erase—”</p><p>“I didn’t come to talk about <strong><em>that</em></strong> night, Sammy,” Dean shuts him down before he can even say the words—and Sam <strong>wants</strong> to punch him.</p><p>Wants to hurt, Dean, the way that <strong><em>he’s</em></strong> been hurting with all these answerless questions these past two years, tumbling around in his damn head.</p><p>God—<em>the actual <strong>nerve</strong> of him!</em></p><p>“So, you’re still gonna avoid shit, pretend it <strong>didn’t</strong> happen? Jus’ like ya did for our whole damn childhood? ‘S’that what you’re sayin,’ Dean?”</p><p>In the half-moonlit room, Sam, can see the linger of doubt written on Dean’s face—<em>and Sam can almost tell what Dean is thinking</em>—<strong><em>almost.</em></strong></p><p>When Dean doesn’t answer, Sam, asks, “Then why’d you come, Dean? Jus’ to <strong>hurt</strong> me s’more?”</p><p>The hurt that reflects in Dean’s eyes <em>is</em> real—<strong>that</strong>, Sam, knows for absolute. And, God—the look of Dean up-close is a <strong><em>sorry</em></strong> one to be sure.</p><p>Sam can’t tell with Dean’s leather jacket and so many clothes, but Dean looks beat-up. Looks <strong>damn</strong>, tired—<em>defeated</em>—<strong><em>broken</em></strong>.</p><p>Dean <em>looks</em> like Sam <strong><em>feels</em></strong>.</p><p>Worse for wear with <em>nothing</em> going for him.</p><p>“I spent my whole life protectin’ you, Sammy. I never wanted to see you hurt. If you don’t remember anythin’ else that’s good, at least believe <em>that</em>. Believe that I gave you <strong>everything</strong> I could of myself—that I freakin’ raised you and <strong><em>loved</em></strong> you like you were my own <strong>kid</strong>, cause I woulda given you <em>everything</em>—hell, I <strong><em>gave</em></strong> you everything.”</p><p>“Not, <strong><em>everything</em></strong>, Dean. Not what you gave, <em>Dad.”</em></p><p>That stops, Dean, <strong>rigid</strong> in his tracks.</p><p>And this shame crosses Dean’s face and presents in <em>shadows</em> down deep in his eyes. And as close as Sam can describe it, it is almost like this random switch flicks in, Dean, and the air <strong>changes</strong>.</p><p>Dean reaches out, before Sam can even realize what he is gonna do and cups the narrow bulge at Sam’s crotch. Already, Sam, has <em>pulsed</em> to erection in response to simply sharing <strong><em>space</em></strong> with, Dean.</p><p>It is his body’s reaction to his big brother, made especially bad by these last two years of <strong>celibacy</strong> forced on him by his straight-up, <em>tortured</em> psyche.</p><p>“I’ve been watchin’ you for the last <em>two</em> days. You don’t got no one, do you, Sammy? No one to see to you like <em>I</em> used to—”</p><p><em>“Don’t …”</em> Sam breathes, cursing his manhood for betraying him and reacting to, Dean, by pulsing after every word, as though no time has passed, <em>whatsoever</em>.</p><p>Sam is way too drunk to see past this overwhelming lust and these past years that he’s spent just wanting, Dean, back, but, too, ultimately <em>prideful</em> to pick up the phone and call.</p><p>Especially, when Dean starts drifting his thumb, <em>back and forth,</em> teasing the mushroom-head of Sam’s <strong>need</strong> through the denim-outside of his jeans.</p><p><em>“You still<strong> mine, </strong>Sammy?”</em> Dean asks in this highly-seductive drawl that is almost <strong>impossible</strong> to see past.</p><p>Dean used to whisper that to him, those night, after, Dean, returned from being gone out on a hunt for a long time and Sam was left restless—<em>and alone.</em> It became their <strong>thing</strong>—<strong><em>sorta</em></strong>—for Dean to ask if he was <em>‘still <strong>his</strong>,’ </em>when he came back.</p><p>Those words—<em>spoken so fleshly with this profound ache that is taking Sam over</em>—snaps him.</p><p>On a dime, Sam, has his hands on, Dean. Using his superior height and strength to half-stumble, <em>half-wrestle</em>, Dean, down to his mattress. Kissing and clashing teeth and tongue. Sharing spit and tasting—<em>inhaling</em>—the scent he’s been missing these last two years.</p><p>Dean smells like <em>seedy</em> motels, other women—<em>probably other men, too</em>—and a mixture of so much crap, but also … Dean still smells like <strong><em>Dean</em></strong>. This earthy, salty-like tang that never washes out—<em>never goes away.</em></p><p>This scent seeps outta Dean’s pores and just sorta makes up <em>who</em> he is.</p><p>Sam doesn’t think about the ruinous wreckage that is his flesh, at the moment. Doesn’t think about his anger and his hatred towards Dean and Dad for making him the fool, for two whole <em>years</em>—all Sam can think about is finally having the thing—<em>the person</em>—that <strong>causes</strong> his ache—<em>underneath him</em>—right here and now<strong><em>, finally!</em></strong></p><p>Dean breaks this scorched-heat kiss between them, and Sam gazes down at Dean—<em>hungry with lust.</em> Engorged and full between his thighs. The swell of his need, clad up-against the far-larger swell of Dean’s own.</p><p>“It’s your <em>birthday,</em> Sammy. I <em>know</em> what you want—what you’ve <strong>always</strong> wanted outta me—so, <strong>take</strong> it. I’ll be your <em>first</em>, since I went an’ fucked-up the right to be your <em>last …”</em></p><p>This is the first instance, Sam, realizes—<em>through his own hazed-out oblivion</em>—that Dean is drunk, <em>too</em>. Possibly high on painkillers—there is this air about him that is really off-kilter.</p><p><em>Shattered,</em> a bit.</p><p>But through the thick of all this lust and how badly Sam wants this—<em>knowing what he knows isn’t gonna stop him.</em></p><p>Dean came to him—touched <strong><em>him</em></strong>; again.</p><p>Dean started <strong><em>all</em></strong> of this, tonight.</p><p>In the heat of it, Sam, doesn’t respond verbally.</p><p>He grunts in <strong><em>acknowledgement</em></strong>, consumed in by this threshold of the need to know what it feels like to claim, Dean. Sam has ached to know since he was <em>first</em> claimed by, Dean.</p><p>In this sorta way—Sam <strong><em>is</em></strong> still a <em>virgin</em>.</p><p>Sam doesn’t think, anymore, about his wants and his needs—he makes the decision to <strong><em>take</em></strong>, instead. With frustrated movements, Sam, sheds them both of their attire, stripping them both down, until they are <em>flesh to flesh.</em></p><p>That trademark, cocky-like, smile is gone from Dean’s face once their <em>clothes</em> are no longer between them like a <strong>barrier</strong>. This feels different, somehow, than it did the <em>last</em> time they did this. The night, Dean and Dad, <em>blew up</em> their existence.</p><p>There is this desperate-like, build-up and Sam can <strong><em>smell</em></strong> the alcohol, practically sweating through his own pores.</p><p>Dean is all fiery-scorch and <em>blushes</em> under the dim moonlight, and through his hazy vision, Sam, can somewhat make-out this <em>new</em> trove of agony set into Dean’s skin. Some older, some newer, but the <strong><em>reality</em></strong> is the same.</p><p>The time between then and now has not been <strong>good</strong> to, Dean.</p><p>No better than the time has been to, <em>Sam.</em></p><p>After a split-second’s look, Sam, forces his lips back to, Dean’s, and spreads his brother’s thighs, opening them wide.</p><p>This position is <strong>foreign</strong> to, Sam, because he’s only ever been allowed on the <em>bottom</em>—even when they made out Sam was <strong>always</strong> underneath, Dean.</p><p>
  <em>Every single time.</em>
</p><p>The only time, Sam, was <strong>ever</strong> on top—<em>was if he climbed in Dean’s lap to kiss</em>—and not long after he’d <em>still</em> wind up vulnerable, spread-out on his back, with one of Dean’s <strong>coarse</strong> hands, squeezing between his thighs to get at his <em>heat.</em></p><p>Sam <em>mimics</em> that action, now.</p><p>Worms a hand down between their bellies to stroke at the erect length of his big brother’s.</p><p>Dean makes this <em>whine-like </em>noise and Sam senses Dean’s thighs go really tight and bunch-up under the skin, where his hamstrings are. And there is this <em>distinct</em> unease, even though Dean must have come here, tonight, chocked-full of booze and pills to offer himself <em>(like some sorta consolation prize)</em> to <em>Sam</em> for his birthday …</p><p>And something about seeing, Dean, covered in all these fresh bruises on his face, chest, arms, legs—<em>freakin’ everywhere</em>—while also thinking about, Dean, clearly under the belief that he can manipulate him <em>(again)</em> by showing up here, <em>like this,</em> starts to eat at him.</p><p>But it is the brass amulet, centered on Dean’s chest like a damn beacon-reminder of all that was destroyed, <strong><em>that,</em></strong> night, that has Sam bitter and <strong><em>angry</em></strong> in a second-flat.</p><p>And suddenly, Sam, wants Dean to <strong>hurt</strong>—to really <strong><em>feel</em></strong> what his betrayal did—to comprehend how badly Sam has suffered, deep down, with his <em>own</em> self-worth, with his own <strong>feelings</strong>, in Dean’s absence.</p><p>Most of all, Sam, wants Dean to know just how bad it was of him, to show up outta the <em>blue</em> like this—<em>like he should just be allowed to do that</em>—to blow-up Sam’s whole world, again, just because it’s Sam’s <em>birthday!</em></p><p>Who does <strong>that</strong>? What kind of <strong>brother</strong>? What kind of <strong><em>person</em></strong><em>?</em></p><p>“Who’s beat you <em>up,</em> Dean?” Sam slurs out in a low drawl, coming out of his drunken-haze a bit, while still working up and down the length of Dean’s throbby-erection. Feeling this thrum-like pulse, grow with every couple strokes of Sam’s hand.</p><p><em>“What?”</em> Dean mumbles, through these hot, little keens that have Sam’s balls <em>lurch</em> and <strong>ache</strong> to be buried in Dean’s ass, right now. But, Sam, is using his willpower to hold himself back—he wants to make, Dean, <strong><em>really</em></strong> feel this first.</p><p>“You really are a <strong><em>slut</em></strong>, just like Dad says, ain’t cha?” Sam hisses, with a drawn-out slur and registers this immediate shock on Dean’s face—but despite the shock of what Sam just said, Dean, is still lifting his hips and working himself against Sam’s fist, like he just can’t <strong><em>help</em></strong> himself—<em>can’t <strong>stop</strong> himself!</em></p><p>So, Sam, keeps jerking up and down, wanting to make this <em>hurt</em>—wanting to make Dean’s heart <strong><em>bleed</em></strong> like his has been bleeding.</p><p>
  <em>“Sammy—”</em>
</p><p>“No, Dean! You show up outta nowhere, lay under me and tell me I can have <strong><em>whatever</em></strong> I want—<em>just like that!</em> And, God, how I begged to fuckin’ have you like this so many <strong>Goddamn</strong> times, De—So <em>many</em> times! An’ you’d always cower and threaten to leave, an’ then you were fuckin’ <em>raped—”</em> Sam notices how Dean’s eyes go wide when he says that word. Shrinking back down into the pillow, yet still a throbby <strong><em>mess</em></strong> in Sam’s hand—<em>still hard and ready to freaking go!</em></p><p>Hell, Dean’s dickhead is weeping <em>slick</em> from the tip in constant little dribbles—even though, Sam, brought it up.</p><p>Something that should have been a <em>mood-killer! </em></p><p>“How do you <em>know</em> ‘bout that?” Dean has tears in his eyes, and Sam knows he is messing up Dean’s buzz—<em>good.</em></p><p>He <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to kill it.</p><p>If they are <em>doing</em> this—they are gonna <strong><em>do</em></strong> this and Dean <em>isn’t</em> gonna hide behind pills and booze.</p><p> Because <strong><em>that</em></strong> isn’t fair.</p><p><strong>None</strong> of this is strictly-speaking <strong>fair</strong>—but <strong><em>that</em></strong> most of all.</p><p>“The doctor told, Dad, after you were mugged. I was’n supposed to hear but I <em>did …”</em> Sam breathes out in a rush of words.</p><p>Dean’s face goes all shadowy and he clenches his jaw shut—<em>not offering anymore words</em>—but still moaning, helpless to stop himself under Sam’s jerking hand.</p><p>“An’ I made myself a promise that I’d <em>never</em> ask this of you—never make you <strong>suffer</strong> like you must have <em>suffered</em> under those men that hurt you—but to find out you just spread your thighs for, Dad, <em>whenever?</em> And how many <strong>others</strong>, Dean? I thought you couldn’t stomach being <em>under</em> a man—hell, remember when you told me, I wasn’ allowed to be a ‘Faggot?’—yet, you’ve fuckin’ done this so many times, that it’s just second-nature for you, now, ain’t it?”</p><p>Dean is wiggling his hips, now. Trying to get out from underneath, Sam.</p><p> But Sam keeps him pinned down. Keeps him hard-pressed in place. Because Dean deserves to feel the same sorta pain that Sam did when Dean said those words to him.</p><p>Made it explicitly clear that being a ‘Faggot,’ was the worst possible thing he could be. While hypocritically, engaging in the same activities behind closed doors with Dad.</p><p>“Get off! Sammy! Lemme up!” Dean is starting to panic. Sam knows what Dean’s panic attacks look like—<em>how they’ve always looked.</em></p><p>And if Sam weren’t so worked-up—<em>so drunk and pissed-off</em>—he might have gotten off.</p><p>Instead, Sam, just keeps talking-shit. Saying all the things he’s <em>wanted</em> to say since he left.</p><p><em>“No. </em>It’s my damn birthday, remember? It’s still <em>my</em> day … an’ I wanna break you like you broke me. I laid under you how many times, Dean? You fuckin’ deserve this—an’ you can’t stop me, Dean. I’m stronger than you. Besides, the way your cock is leakin’ it makes you hot to be underneath, don’t it?” Sam speeds up his hand and whispers something else in Dean’s <em>good</em> ear.</p><p>“You know why I haven’ been with no one else? Why I can’t <em>stomach</em> it? I close my eyes an’ all I can see is <strong>you</strong>, Dean. Just like this. Legs spread, mouth-open, and Dad’s hand on your cock, while you shoot your load on your <em>belly</em> for him, while wearing <em>this</em> necklace I gave you,” Sam uses his free hand to clasp onto the horn-headed necklace for emphasis.</p><p>Dean makes this half-sobbed, whine, as he starts to tilt over <em>that</em> edge, toward release. “While you came—just like this, for Dad. Just like a <em>slut</em> that likes being <em>fucked</em> by Dad.”</p><p>Sam beats Dean off, right at the crown. Tilting his head up just enough to take-in Dean’s tortured expression as he falls apart. Spurting his load onto his belly, same as Dean did, <em>that</em> night.</p><p>Dean is wordless in the immediate <em>aftermath</em> of his orgasm. Still sniffling—<em>still on the verge of a breakdown</em>—but not saying a <strong>damn</strong> thing.</p><p>Which is typical.</p><p>Dean always goes <em>quiet</em> when shit gets, too, real—when Sam calls him <strong><em>out</em></strong> on stuff.</p><p>“You still spreadin’ your <em>legs</em> for him, Dean? Still seducing him like you just did <em>me?”</em></p><p>Sam lets go of Dean’s cock. Allowing it flop down on his taut lower abdomen, in order to swirl his index around the puckered-up, pink-rimmed hole still levered-up, that is calling to Sam’s aching need. The hole quivers, flexing with every conceivable touch.</p><p>Dean’s expression changes, again. This time, he looks to be filled with shame.</p><p>Sam feels his stomach tighten.</p><p>“Sammy—”</p><p>“Guess there’s only one way to know for <em>sure,</em> right?” Sam doesn’t want to hear what Dean was gonna say.</p><p>In one fell swoop, Sam, lines himself up, and pushes home in Dean.</p><p>The give is <em>easy</em>—<em>Dean’s hole is loose and stretched</em>—this tells, Sam, <em>all</em> he needs to know. Dean is <strong>still</strong> intimate with, Dad, on a <em>regular</em> basis. Sam remembers just how quickly his own ass would tighten-up, if he went, too, long without, Dean.</p><p>Usually a matter of <em>days</em>.</p><p>“You fucking <strong>are</strong>, aren’t you?’ Sam starts to rut, hard and fast—chasing his release, needing to feel something other than this sheer agony in his swollen, heavy balls.</p><p>Dean is fighting, again, under him. All <strong>apologies</strong>, now—<em>all pleas and curses. </em></p><p>Sam isn’t having it though and dips down his head. Forcing a kiss to Dean’s kiss-swollen pout, trying to erase the images of Dad and Dean in this <em>same</em> freaking position—trying to escape this ever-present torment of their <em>sordid</em> past.</p><p>When, Sam, comes up for air, their eyes meet and Dean turns his cheek. Blinking through these endless tears, that have Sam all fucked-up inside.</p><p>Because one piece of Sam feels badly for dragging Dean down—and this angry, <strong>irritational</strong> <em>part (maybe the drunk, vengeful part) </em>wants to see Dean go up in <strong><em>flames</em></strong>.</p><p>And right now, it is the <em>latter</em> that is winning.</p><p>Sam bends forward, to once again whisper in Dean’s <em>good</em> ear, “You’ve no idea how sick I’d felt, for years ‘bout lovin’ you, d’you? No idea how that word—<em>Faggot</em>—<strong>tore</strong> into me. Made me think I was <em>repulsive</em>. That I didn’ <strong>deserve</strong> you …” Sam is losing himself to this hot take of being inside, Dean—of knowing the push and pull of coitus for the very first time—but he is also losing himself to this overbearing hatred, too—to all this damn pain that has made this festering, constant home inside of him for far too long …</p><p>It is like this hollow fucking ache that just won’t <strong>die</strong>. And Dean showed-up—<em>and brought it all back in on him.</em></p><p>This <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> fair!</p><p>“Ya made me think<strong><em> I</em></strong> was the broken one—<em>the <strong>freak</strong>!</em> But it’s you—you’re this <strong>broken</strong>, thing! You’re the <em>‘Faggot,’</em> that uses your body to <strong>seduce</strong> your family. To control an’ <em>manipulate</em> us. You’re the <strong>sick</strong> one, Dean—the <em>repulsive</em> one. You trained me to be <strong>yours</strong> then you betrayed me with, <strong>Dad</strong>. Then you show up <em>here</em>, drunk an’ high an offer me <strong><em>this</em></strong> like it’s some kinda <em>prize</em>—you’ve whored yourself to <strong><em>everyone</em></strong> <strong><em>else</em></strong>, Dean—you’re not even <em>tight</em> down there, you’re loose—but to stomach bein’ with me you gotta be high an’ <strong>drunk</strong>? <em>Fuck you, Dean!</em> You fuckin’ <strong><em>ruined</em></strong> me for anyone else—fuckin’ ruined my <strong><em>life</em></strong> an’ you still show up an’ manage to <strong><em>ruin</em></strong> it some more! So, go ahead—have a friggin’ breakdown—lemme see what kinda <strong><em>broken</em></strong> you are inside. Lemme see how <strong>fucked</strong> in the head, you <em>really</em> are. ‘Cause you’re <strong><em>Dad’s</em></strong> bitch—and now you’re <strong><em>mine</em></strong><em>.”</em></p><p>Sam doesn’t mean <strong>any</strong> of what he is saying. Even, right now, he knows he doesn’t <em>really</em> mean it—but he <strong>has</strong> to say it. Because it is <em>eating</em> at him, every single day that he hasn’t gone and said these things.</p><p>Every day that he has had to <em>live</em> with them, festering in his head—<em>wanting to come out but never having the <strong>opportunity</strong>.</em></p><p>And Dean came here and did <strong><em>this</em></strong>—dragged Sam back into this fucked-up, <em>codependency</em> that is always gonna be tightly bound inside of him like a, freaking, ball of twine.</p><p>And fuck if this doesn’t feel <strong><em>like</em></strong> heaven! Like <strong><em>bliss</em></strong> to know what it feels like to be on the <em>giving</em> end of fucking—rather than the <em>receiving</em> end.</p><p>It is <strong><em>glorious</em></strong>—and the pain and torture in Dean’s eyes—<em>etched onto Dean’s face</em>—is only adding to all of this sick, wretched pleasure that is building inside of his belly, and deep in his balls.</p><p>Dean is in tears—is <em>sobbing</em> and quivering but when Sam finishes his spiel—when his <strong>sentences</strong> filled with drunken slurs and harsh, soul-crushing words <strong>ends</strong>, Dean, goes <em>still</em> under him.</p><p>And he, <strong><em>takes</em></strong>, it.</p><p>Sam’s mind is slow and overwhelmed, but still registers that Dean is like this pile of limbs and parts that just <em>gives up.</em></p><p>Dean doesn’t try to <em>apologize</em> anymore, just looks Sam, <em>dead</em> in the eyes and says, “I <strong>know</strong>, Sammy. You think I don’t <em>know?”</em></p><p>And Goddamn if that doesn’t chill Sam to the bone—<em>right here as Dean says it—</em>and make him feel sorry for what he has said—for what he doesn’t even <strong><em>mean</em></strong> in any other context than pure <em>bitterness</em>, that he can’t take back now—because he is too chocked-full of <strong>pride</strong> and stupid booze.</p><p>Maybe he succeeded—maybe he just <strong><em>broke</em></strong>, Dean.</p><p>Something, <em>(he is quite ashamed to admit)</em> Sam, has fantasized about since he walked out, <em>(in vehemence for all the years, Dean, fucking lied and scarred him)</em> but has proven to be far less satisfying now that he’s <em>done</em> it.</p><p>Sam doesn’t <strong>feel</strong> better—<em>he just feels like shit.</em> Cause he stooped to this low damn place to get here—and he never pictured his first time with Dean under him, <em>this way.</em></p><p>
  <em>Ever.</em>
</p><p>It was supposed to be loving—<em>and tender</em>—and most of all <strong><em>theirs</em></strong>.</p><p>But it can’t be, because of the <strong>past</strong>, and that hurts, Sam. Cuts him deep, because he once would have killed to be loved unconditionally and <em>trusted</em> with Dean’s body.</p><p>But, Dean, never saw <strong>fit</strong> to trust him when it mattered <strong>most</strong>—<em>and that cuts Sam deepest of all</em>—not until tonight, and this wasn’t <em>trust</em> … this was—<strong><em>desperation? </em></strong></p><p>The want to have a <strong><em>reaction</em></strong> out of Sam?</p><p>Sam doesn’t know what Dean intended for <em>tonight</em> to be—and he doesn’t bother to <strong>ask</strong>, either.</p><p>Because, <em>why?</em></p><p>What does <strong>that</strong> matter, now?</p><p>This is what they <strong>got</strong>—<strong><em>have</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>This sick, depraved, and vile <strong><em>bitterness</em></strong>, is the <em>only</em> thing they, now, have.</p><p>Sam is close to his peak—and all the sudden, he finds himself <strong><em>falling</em></strong> over it. Crashing through this mind-numbing sensation, like ice and chaos and lunging-turbulence.</p><p>Long streaks of wet-heat, floods outta him and fills Dean. Fills the inside of Dean’s passage with all this pent-up seed that <em>(in the last two years)</em> has only come out while Sam sleeps and dreams of Dean, in the form of nocturnal emissions.</p><p>And, somewhere, in the after-mess of <strong><em>all</em></strong> this, Sam, just wishes this <em>is</em> a dream. That, Dean, isn’t here—and that he’d just creamed his <em>boxers</em> like some kinda horny pre-teen, instead of creaming the <em>inside</em> of his big brother, after further ripping-apart what was already like a <em>severed-off limb,</em> between them.</p><p>Tears of his own start to fall, now. And Sam curls his arms around Dean’s torso, as the beginnings of this wind-down spreads through him. And the reality of how much <strong><em>damage</em></strong> he’s caused starts to make its imprint on his mind.</p><p>Dean is <strong>silent</strong>, still.</p><p>Lying under him with short, eclipsed breaths that sound in Sam’s ear, like shaky little currents. Each one makes Sam think of hollow emptiness and <strong><em>shattered</em></strong> promises.</p><p>So many shattered promises that <strong><em>still</em></strong> lie between them like dead roses on a <strong><em>damned</em></strong>-<strong><em>grave</em></strong>.</p><p>It hits, Sam, that <strong><em>that</em></strong> is why this pissed him off so much, tonight. That, Dean, only showed up here, as a sort of visitation into something that is no longer even <strong>existent</strong> between them.</p><p>This relationship <strong><em>died</em></strong> the second, Sam, found Dean underneath, Dad.</p><p>That was just it—<em>this was just over</em>—and Sam doesn’t know how to work through that in his head.</p><p>How to truly <em>let</em> <em>this go</em>—even though he forced himself to, <em>back then.</em></p><p>And what ticks him off the <strong>most</strong> is that he knows, Dean, <em>won’t</em> come back, again. That this is probably some sorta freaking <em>goodbye sonnet</em> to the memory of what was once a <strong>necessity</strong> for them to live and breathe through the <em>rough</em> childhood that came with the territory of being a hunter’s kids.</p><p>But, Sam, realizes that even <strong><em>that</em></strong> was a damn lie.</p><p>Sam <strong><em>had</em></strong> needed, <strong><em>Dean</em></strong>, to exist through his childhood, but Dean had split his need between Sam <strong><em>and</em></strong> Dad. Pulled himself through it, by being <em>with</em> Dad. Because, apparently, just being with <strong><em>Sam</em></strong>, alone, wasn’t enough for Dean.</p><p>Dean was Sam’s whole <strong><em>world</em></strong>—while most of Dean’s world is still very much a closed-off <strong><em>mystery</em></strong> to Sam. Buried under lies and secrets that now crush and kill Sam’s heart, repeatedly on a <strong>daily</strong> basis.</p><p>So much for it always <strong><em>only</em></strong> being the pair of them, like Sam had <strong><em>hoped</em></strong> it would be, when he’d almost thrown away Stanford for Dean.</p><p>Dean doesn’t talk and neither does, Sam.</p><p>In the aftermath, Sam, moves off of Dean to lay alongside him on his mattress. Dean doesn’t try to get up, just <strong><em>lays</em></strong> there, stroking a few deft fingers through Sam’s mop of hair.</p><p>It is a <em>soothing</em> gesture, same as it has always been, and Sam finds it sends him off to sleep in <strong>seconds</strong>—tired and still wanting to apologize, but not simply knowing <strong><em>how</em></strong>. Sam curls his arms and legs around, Dean, and that’s the <strong>last</strong> thing he remembers.</p><p>It feels like he only shuts his eyes for a few seconds, but when he reopens them it is to <em>daylight</em>.</p><p>Dean is gone—and Sam is hard-pressed to wonder if he was ever even there, <em>at all. </em></p><p>Sam’s boxers are in place and the seed has been cleansed from his skin, like it was never <em>there</em> to begin with.</p><p>The only thing that convinces a very <em>hungover</em>, Sam, that last night was really real, is the scent of Dean left behind on his sheets. No amount of tidying the room, could have erased <strong><em>that</em></strong>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxvii. bleeding light through glass.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Sam went over that night, repeatedly in his head for <strong><em>months</em></strong>, afterward. Sometimes, convincing himself it was a <em>trick</em> of his drunken, overwrought mind, and others, confirming to himself it was, indeed, <strong>very</strong>, <em>real</em>.</p><p>The things he said and did, will always stir this fester of shame and regret in him, because in the end, Sam, will always be <em>interconnected</em> with Dean.</p><p>Even though he can’t stop this <em>feeling</em> of wrenching hurt, inside himself—and even though <em>everything</em> inside of Sam screams for him to give in, Sam, <em>never</em> calls, Dean.</p><p>The number will <em>always</em> stay the same, in case anyone has need of it for any reason. Dean told Sam that himself, but Sam can never bring himself to pick up a phone and dial <em>that</em> number that is burned in his brain like fire.</p><p>Worse than the first time, Sam, plunges into a <strong><em>bitter</em></strong> depression that threatens to consume him whole and mess up the life he <strong>built</strong> for himself at Stanford.</p><p>But there were two people that <em>didn’t</em> allow him to fall, too, far off the beaten track.</p><p>One, being Brady—<em>Sam’s roommate, (way better than his Freshman year roommate) whom he befriended a few months before Dean showed up on Sam’s birthday</em>—and the second was, <strong><em>Jess</em></strong>.</p><p>A girl that Sam met only two weeks before, Dean, showed up outta the blue and did what he <strong><em>did</em></strong> to Sam’s head and heart …</p><p>Jess had been showing her interest in dating him <em>(since they met)</em> but it was Sam that continuously blew her off, <em>(including on his birthday for obvious reasons) </em>and Brady had come back the following week after Dean left, to find Sam <strong>buried</strong> under his covers and <strong>moody</strong>.</p><p>That was the end of things for Brady<em> (whom was the closest thing to a friend, Sam, has had since moving to Stanford)</em> and he convinced, Sam, to take the plunge.</p><p>To actually go out on a date, because being <em>‘sad and pathetic,’</em> <em>(as Brady put it)</em> all the time, just wasn’t cutting it, according to Brady.</p><p>So, Sam, <strong>tried</strong> for normal.</p><p>The kind of normal that he had once <strong>hoped</strong> to experience with, Dean, and that meant coming to the realization that he wasn’t the <em>‘Faggot,’</em> that Dean always <strong>worried</strong> he’d grow up to be.</p><p>Sure, Sam, still crushed on other boys<em>, (which he kept to himself)</em> but around when he turned eighteen, Sam, also started seeing the allure of the female form, too. But, since he’d had, Dean, there as no point in bringing it up and no inclination to pursue it.</p><p>It was just a curiosity, really.</p><p>Until, Jess.</p><p>There was just something <strong><em>about</em></strong> Jess that really climbed under Sam’s skin and stayed there. It wasn’t as easy to blow her off as it was the other girls—<em>Jess was</em>—<strong><em>is</em></strong>—persistent.</p><p>At first, he was closed off to her.</p><p>They went out, had dinner, did normal things like normal college kids did when they dated <em>(all while Sam repeatedly went over that last night with Dean in his head)</em> and even though, Sam, wasn’t a typical guy, because of his general moodiness and lack of eagerness at <em>jumping her bones</em>—Jess <em>really</em> seemed to like him.</p><p><strong>Genuinely</strong>, <em>like,</em> him.</p><p>And it took a month or so, of dating her over that Summer break, to realize the <em>‘why,’ </em>behind why he couldn’t get, Jess, outta his head.</p><p>She reminded him of, <strong><em>Dean.</em></strong></p><p>Jess has this wild, freeing air about her that just likes to worm its way right in and stay there. Jess is like this <strong>fire</strong>—<em>this all-consuming and passionate light—</em>that is <strong>impossible</strong> to ignore. Just like, Dean, <em>on his <strong>good</strong> days.</em></p><p>Her energy is surreal and there is also this confidence in her that replicates the way Dean’s confidence is, whenever he used to hit on pretty girls. Almost, like this wicked-good, <strong>charisma</strong>—<em>that is undeniably addicting</em>—and Sam became attached.</p><p>It wasn’t like he freaking <em>planned</em> to.</p><p>Hell, Sam, never intended to love <em>anyone</em> <strong>ever</strong>, again.</p><p>Never even planned to <strong><em>sleep</em></strong> with anyone else—not especially after that <em>last</em> night with, Dean.</p><p>But, once again, Jess, is the type to <strong><em>always</em></strong> get what she wants. And much like, Dean, the art of seduction is another of her <strong><em>many</em></strong> skills.</p><p>Two months into dating, was their first time.</p><p>Sam was awkward and shy about it, because it felt like a betrayal of what he’d once had with, Dean. It was silly and stupid to still have this <strong><em>chaotic</em></strong> loyalty to, Dean, even though they are never gonna be a couple, again. But that’s just the way, Sam, is built.</p><p>
  <em>Loyal to a fault.</em>
</p><p>So, falling into, Jess, left him feeling guilty, afterward.</p><p>Guilty, because he realized <em>(in the immediate aftermath)</em> that he had fallen in love with, Jess.</p><p>That she was almost this female <strong><em>replacement</em></strong> for, Dean.</p><p>Jess has never minded that Sam doesn’t talk about his childhood. About much of anything, really. Jess does most of the talking and Sam does most of the listening.</p><p>She shares, Dean’s birthday, which is another way she is <em>almost</em> a replacement for the big brother that <strong>raised</strong> him. And, just like Dean used to, she takes <em>care</em> of him in trivial ways <em>(tidying his room, cooking him meals, coaxing him out of bed on his worst days to make him shower then popping in a movie for them to cuddle up to on the couch)</em> all of which helps his heartbreak over, Dean, lessen, some of the time.</p><p>It was Jess’s idea for them to move in together, which was a <strong>huge</strong> step—<em>but Sam took it</em>—because things finally felt like they were coming together.</p><p>Like, life with Jess <em>(though it wasn’t always perfect because deep down, Sam, would always miss Dean) </em>was the only tangible thing that could hold the glue that keeps, Sam, clumsily together, in place.</p><p>And it was—<em>is</em>—the only thing that has kept, Sam, sane in the months <em>(18 to be exact)</em> since, Sam, last set eyes on, Dean.</p><p>Hell, Jess, is even understanding when he wakes her up <em>(screaming) </em>in the middle of the night, over the nightmares that have plagued him since he walked out on Dean, Dad—<em>and the hunting life, in general.</em></p><p>To say his first roommate, and even Brady, were less than agreeable when they were woken by cries and screams, is <strong>quite</strong> the understatement.</p><p>The nightmares have always come when he is separated from, Dean.</p><p>All his <em>life</em>, it’s been this way.</p><p>Sam knows it is because as far back as he can remember, he has <em>only</em> slept with a monkey-tight clutch to Dean’s body. Now, Sam, replicates that hold with, Jess, at night—<em>but it isn’t the same.</em></p><p>Where, Dean, was bulky and muscled, Jess, is soft and feminine—<em>petite.</em></p><p>His <em>body</em> knows the difference and the nightmares come in fresh, <strong>constant</strong> waves. Some nights he wakes up in a cold-sweat, screaming, while others he just wakes himself up and allows Jess to remain asleep.</p><p>These past few nights, however, Sam, keeps having this overwhelmingly <em>repetitive</em> nightmare, that <em>(for once)</em> isn’t about, Dean.</p><p>Jess on the ceiling, surrounded by fire—just like, Dean, described about Mom’s death.</p><p>Every time, Sam, endures it—<em>this nightmare</em>—it makes his head pound and sometimes, his nose even bleeds. It is bad, all the way around and something he <em>can’t</em> talk to, Jess, about. He could never tell Jess the truth about his family.</p><p>About, Dean, or anyone else.</p><p>Sure, she knows he has a brother—<strong><em>Dean</em></strong>—and that she shares his birthday, but that is about <strong>all</strong> she knows about him.</p><p>Sam still can’t talk about, Dean. Not to anyone—<em>least of all himself.</em></p><p>“Babe, it’s alright. It’s just another nightmare,” Jess whispers in this half-asleep, whisper, that has Sam’s tremors abating in seconds—and heartbeat returning to normal, from <em>chaotic</em>, as he realizes that he was just trapped in <strong>another</strong> nightmare.</p><p>“S-Sorry, Jess …” Sam whispers back.</p><p>Sometime, after falling asleep he realizes that he’s kicked off the covers and rolled onto his back—no longer holding Jess in the usual <em>cling</em>, he’s familiar with.</p><p>Jess is an expert at knowing how to calm him when he is <em>this</em> riled and jittery all over.</p><p>Just like, Dean, did once, Jess, trails the length of her hand underneath Sam’s nightshirt, finding the sinews of his muscles, she strokes and ebbs little patterns into it. Both arousing and placating him, at the same time.</p><p>Rolling her body so she’s poised at his hip, one of her legs hitches up to rest at his thigh, and she whispers gently, still, with a sleep-heavy voice.</p><p>“There is nothing to apologize <em>for</em>, Sam. Just calm down. You’re <strong>here</strong>, in bed, with <em>me</em>. Whatever happened in <em>there …</em> it is gone now. There’s just <strong>us</strong> …” Jess’s hand sweeps down his abdomen to dip into his boxers, cupping the already-stiffening part, between his thighs.</p><p>Sam jerks, through a half-moan, and pants through his teeth.</p><p>It is these moments, in the between of wakefulness and sleep, that Jess <em>always</em> uses this angelic, <em>soft-skinned</em> touch to ease him back out of it.</p><p>Sam has never told her about touch being used to console him in the past—<em>she just figured it out on her own.</em></p><p>And even this little morsel of comfort, feels like something of a betrayal to what he had with, Dean. Because he <strong><em>aches</em></strong> for it. Sometimes, even closes his eyes and <strong>pretends</strong> that, Dean, is here with him.</p><p>And God, does it ever make him feel like <strong><em>hell</em></strong> for it.</p><p>Like being with Jess is a <em>betrayal</em> of Dean—and thinking of Dean while he is <em>warm and safe</em> in bed <strong>with</strong>, Jess, is a betrayal of <strong><em>Jess</em></strong>.</p><p>These thoughts slowly <em>eat</em> at him on a daily basis, but Sam always consoles these thoughts by reminding himself that <strong><em>he</em></strong> isn’t the one that ruined the trust, Sam, thought he shared with Dean.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>Dean is the one that <strong>mutilated</strong> that trust—<em>not the other way around. </em>So, why should he feel guilty for moving on<em>—or trying to, anyway?</em></p><p>Sam confessed to her once, that he lost someone that he loved <em>(that this person betrayed him)</em> but never gave her a name—and she has never pushed him to talk about it. Just, understood—like the sweet, kind, caring human being that she is.</p><p>One thought, always consumes him in <em>these</em> moments—<em>he doesn’t deserve her.</em></p><p>Not, especially, after his last interaction with, Dean. The brokenness in Dean’s eyes—<em>the hurt.</em></p><p>It plagues, Sam, every <strong>damn</strong> day.</p><p>“I know,” Sam moans out, while Jess strokes along his length. Spurning this ache that builds and builds in his lower abdomen.</p><p>Sam is afraid of tainting, Jess, by <em>loving</em> her—<em>by falling for her. </em>He has always believed there is a curse on his family—and Dad and Dean are perfect examples of that. But, Sam, has given Jess so many outs and she hasn’t ever <em>wanted</em> to take any of them.</p><p>Always, stayed—<em>despite Sam’s brokenness.</em></p><p>Despite these damned <strong>nightmares</strong>.</p><p>And despite the countless other ways that, Dean, left Sam <em>fucked-up.</em></p><p>Jess tilts up her chin and kisses him, square on the mouth, and Sam loses his thoughts to the swirly-heat that she is spawning in him, right now.</p><p>It’s fire and electric—and the same as <em>Dean</em> used to be able to do to him.</p><p>“You need it <strong>bad</strong>, don’t you, Honey?” Jess teases, near the shell of his ear, when his manhood gives a couple throbs and he descends into a series of almost wanton moans avidly bucking his hips.</p><p>All the sudden, he <strong><em>does</em></strong> need it—<em>needs her</em>—and this is just another thing, Jess, has never pushed him to talk about.</p><p>His abnormal <em>appetite</em>, between the sheets.</p><p>Sam prefers her on top—<em>in charge</em>—because that is all he has ever known. And more than just a couple times<em>, (when Sam is the one on top) </em>Sam, is on top, while buried in her ass <em>instead</em> of her sex.</p><p>Jess is a saint for never questioning him about it. Never making him feel like it is <em>twisted</em>, despite, Sam, knowing that it is—<em>that <strong>he</strong> is.</em></p><p>Dean fucked him up—<em>for life</em>—and has it so that everything in Sam is hardwired to be <em>backwards</em>. His sexual appetite is all upside down and sideways and there is no getting around <em>that</em>.</p><p>Sam experiences his stomach clench, because he knows what Jess means by what she’s said—she knows him <em>all</em> <em>too well.</em></p><p><em>“Yeah …” </em>Sam breathes in confirmation, and Jess only smiles slides her hand out of his bottoms, and swiftly tugs them down and off.</p><p>Sam shivers from the October chill in their bedroom and waits, patiently while she strips off her nightclothes.</p><p>The silhouette of her youthful frame in the darkness, has him infused with all this tension, that is screaming for release, but he is ashamed to admit that whenever they do this, his mind always travels back to the one person he can’t ever forget—<em>Dean.</em></p><p>Jess, reaches into their nightstand and pulls out the strap-on, they’ve used more times than Sam can count. It was embarrassing for him to ask that <em>first</em> time, because most <em>‘purely straight’</em> men would never need something inside their ass, from time to time, like Sam does.</p><p>But it isn’t every night, and Jess has never <em>minded</em>.</p><p>Sam knows what she likes—knows how to get her off while she does it <em>(or after depending on how quick he spends while she does it).</em> And sometimes they go multiple rounds, usually with her riding him at one point, to get off.</p><p>She fastens it around her hips and pushes up on his thighs until they’re adequately splayed. Flashing him a warm smile, as she guides the phallus in.</p><p>Sam gasps and clenches around the toy, trying to adjust, while she starts to move in him. No plastic, phallic-shaped toy could <strong><em>ever</em></strong> replace the <em>real</em>, Dean, but if he closes his eyes—<em>it <strong>almost</strong> can.</em></p><p>Jess leans down, fisting the sheets for leverage with one hand, she dips the other in-between their bodies to reattach to his now, leaking and <em>twitching</em> arousal.</p><p>“It’s okay, Sammy—I’m <strong>right</strong> here,” Jess coos next to his ear, making this already tight and building knot in his lower-belly even tighter and hotter.</p><p>Tears well in Sam’s eyes whenever she says that nickname—the one name that she’s only allowed to call him in their bedroom <em>(when they are like this)</em> and Jess doesn’t even know <strong>why</strong>.</p><p>Sam told her the nickname helps him get off, but not the significance behind it.</p><p>Jess strengthens her thrusts, while Sam uses his hands to cup and knead the bulk of her breasts, thumbing her pink-pointed nipples.</p><p>Their lips attach and Sam moans his <em>distinct</em> pleasure and agony into her mouth. Jess has never questioned his <em>tears</em>—she must assume it is from the intensity of being <strong>pegged</strong>, and has no idea that it is, really, Sam, mourning the loss of <strong><em>his</em></strong>, Dean.</p><p>How <em>could</em> she? He’s never told her about <em>anything</em> aside from losing his first love. Let alone that his first love is <strong><em>also</em></strong> his big brother.</p><p>Not even that he isn’t strictly a <em>heterosexual</em> man.</p><p>Their moans blend together and Sam is encumbered by his memories of, Dean, on top of him—<em>giving him this. </em>Fueling this <em>desire</em>, this <em>ache</em> in Sam that is <strong>always</strong> here.</p><p>“That’s it, <em>Baby</em>—<em>let go. </em>Cum for me,” she encourages, evidently realizing he is just on the cusp of it. Even in <strong><em>this</em></strong> way, she’s just like, Dean.</p><p>It is seconds, maybe less—and Sam falls over his edge.</p><p>Seed pumps out onto his stomach, spattering a little trail, while also seeping out onto Jess’s <em>stroking</em> hand.</p><p>It feels like he is falling into bliss and blinding-hot light sparks behind his <strong>closed</strong> eyelids, as he shudders under the feel of her, like <em>this</em>.</p><p>Fuck … this always feels so <em>sinfully</em> good—<em>and so inconceivably bad</em>—all at once.</p><p>Sam, opens his eyes and lowers his hands, deciding to take care of, Jess, <em>properly</em>, tonight.</p><p>Helping her out of the strap-on he pushes her back onto their mattress and spreads her open, burying his face between her thighs. Licking and sucking the sopping-wet seams of her folds. Finding the little button at the top of her mound, his tongue wicks out to twirl around it.</p><p>Listening to her sounds, using them to guide him into spurning her release. Jess’s fingers wind in his hair. Tugging and brushing the strands at his skelp.</p><p>It took, Sam, a couple times to figure out how to get a girl off with his mouth. Of course, over the years, Sam, did his learning on Dean’s cock, but getting off a male and getting off a female are rather different affairs.</p><p>Thankfully, Jess, is a noisy lover, same as Dean used to be, and Sam knows when she’s <em>into</em> <em>it</em> and when she’s <em>not</em>—every swipe of his tongue is followed by loud, encumbering moans throughout their bedroom—<em>she is definitely enjoying his current efforts.</em></p><p>She arches her back, while in a series of tremors, and Sam feels the familiar gush of juices seep over his tongue, at her entrance.</p><p>Sam laps them up while she quivers and gasps, until she’s clean and spent.</p><p>Shifting back into place, Sam, collapses down at her side, pulls her in tight, and plants playful kisses along her throat.</p><p>Jess giggles with this gentle little laugh that Sam <em>loves</em> when she makes, and for a second, Sam, just revels in this freaking perfect girl nestled beside him, that he is so damn lucky to have found.</p><p>Without her, Sam, is well aware that his life wouldn’t be <em>livable</em>, right now. He would still be in this dark, deep hole that he couldn’t surface from. At least now, when he goes to that dark place—someone is here to fish him back out.</p><p> Jess is like this skin-deep anchor that keeps him sane<em>—keeps him freaking grounded—</em>and able to face every day without, Dean.</p><p>Jess, has become the single reason Sam clings on to, for why he doesn’t pick up his cell phone and dial that number in his head—that number that could only bring toxic, codependent things crashing into Sam’s life.</p><p>After all, his last encounter with Dean couldn’t be described as anything short of unhealthy aggression and years’ worth of pent-up resentment about Dean making him like this—making it impossible for Sam to ever truly <strong><em>forget</em></strong> Dean.</p><p>Jess rests one of her hands down on Sam’s chest, then winds one of her fingers down to trace at one of Sam’s many faint scars.</p><p>The first time they slept together and stripped off their clothes, Jess, noticed the ruination under his shirt. The divots slice marks that are clearly self-inflicted and he was heavily ashamed at first, until he saw hers.</p><p>There are faint scars on her upper-inner thighs, and a couple under her, panty-line, on either hip. She confessed (at the time) that she has gone through some dark shit in her past—things it is better he isn’t aware of. <em>(Sam will always feel guilty about this but he dug around in her background and found her father was arrested when she was thirteen and the case-file sealed).</em></p><p>Maybe that is another reason he has fallen so hard for this girl. Knowing her life isn’t perfect—knowing that she can relate to a fucked-up background.</p><p>Either way, after their first time, Sam, has never been nervous about her seeing his scars—<em>or judging them</em>—because she knows what it is like to feel they need to be made, to lose control so completely that that is the only control it feels like you have.</p><p>And that is what making those scars was like for, Sam.</p><p>So many freaking scars.</p><p>Jess knows when he is most stressed, because the scars on his palms reopen and become fresh. Whenever that happens, she is always extra-sweet to him. Baking him cookies, giving him more touches, more kisses—more everything.</p><p>Right now, Sam’s palms are fully healed—just ugly crescent scars.</p><p>“I love you, Jess. You know that?” Sam turns her cheek, tilting her face so that she’s looking at him.</p><p>She flashes him a tired smile. “I do know, only ‘cause you’ve told me about a hundred times,” she flirts.</p><p>He lets out a throaty laugh that rumbles his chest a little. “Maybe I won’t say it so much then,” he hums.</p><p>She feigns offense, “You <strong>jerk</strong>! You better not stop saying it!” She lightly slaps his chest for emphasis, “I mean it!”</p><p>Sam laughs harder. “Cool your jets, I’ll say it more.” Lifting her palm, he kisses at her knuckles. “I promise.”</p><p>Jess laughs and settles her head back down on his chest, and they lay there—just like that—until eventually they both drift back to sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
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</p><p> </p><p>It is the next night, and Sam wakes from alongside, Jess, <em>(this time not because of a nightmare, but because of a noise downstairs)</em> to creaks and rummaging.</p><p><em>‘Shit—a burglar,’,</em> he thinks to himself, climbing out of bed, he heads down the stairs.</p><p>Towards whatever <em>moron</em> decided to burglarized <strong><em>this</em></strong> particular house, <em>tonight …</em></p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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    <b>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</b>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. part 10; to lose what we have.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <i>Dean coming to terms with Sammy's absence.<br/>Dean is 22-26<br/>Sam is 18-22 </i>
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          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>Hello Lovelies!</i><br/>This is one of the most heartbreaking installments I have written for this story, thus far! I have been writing this and giving myself headaches from writing, too, much and just obsessing over making this damn perfect for all of you, because you are all so patient and encouraging and I wanted this one to be absolutely up to par with the high expectations that you all have for this!!! Okay, so! This is gonna be painful and go find all those tissues, because if you thought Sammy's POV was rough and difficult--this is like the motherlode of that! So be warned and prepare yourself! ALSO, We have made it to the pilot coming in the next installment, I don't want to redo scenes from the show, too, often, so you won't see much of the 'canon' scenes but know that the vast majority (if not all of them) will exist as we go! Just unseen or mildly mentioned/glossed over!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <strong> <em>part 10; to lose what we have.</em> </strong>
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  <p><strong> </strong> <em>I focused so hard</em></p>
  <p>
    <em>on what I wanted</em>
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    <em>that I lost sight</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>of what I deserved.</em>
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  <em>xxviii. the sins of time, past.</em>
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</p><p> </p><p>Everything is happening in this tangent, <strong><em>whirlwind</em></strong>.</p><p>In this shocking, twisted-like, <strong><em>landmine</em></strong> that just won’t stop going off and <em>exploding</em> and blowing apart more and more land, until what is left is only tattered shreds and wide-berthed holes, <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong>, as far as the keen eye can <em>see</em>.</p><p>That is what this feels like, right now, to <strong>Dean</strong>.</p><p>Like the worst sorta thing, <em>imaginable</em>.</p><p>All this time, Dean, has <strong>shielded</strong> Sammy from this—from the filth-riddled truth of their existence; of <strong><em>his</em></strong> existence.</p><p>Between nights with Dad, little white <em>lies</em> to Sammy, and time spent with strange men in <strong>seedy</strong> bathroom stalls or van enclosures—Dean has always only done, <strong>one</strong> damn thing in the midst of it all, <em>(or tried to, anyway). </em></p><p>
  <em>Protect, Sammy.</em>
</p><p>That is what all the <strong>lies</strong>—<em>all the everything</em>—has been for, since as far back as Dean can <strong>remember</strong>, now.</p><p>There has only been ‘Protect, Sammy,’ swimming ‘round in his head.</p><p>And for it to all come down to <strong><em>this</em></strong><em>?</em></p><p>This moment of <em>sick-<strong>twist</strong></em> all huddled up and <em>(meant to be)</em> buried away inside his <strong>deepest</strong> parts that has just been thrust out into the open—<em>into Sammy’s open</em>—and Dean is on the verge of a melting down, <strong>knowing</strong> that.</p><p>Dean loses seconds, trying to wrap his <strong>brain</strong> around Sammy yanking, Dad, off of him, only to launch Dad onto the <em>asphalt</em>.</p><p>Climbing out of, Baby, Dean, can <strong>only</strong> think about covering up the bareness of his skin—trying to hide this <strong><em>disgusting</em></strong> marked-up thing from view and shield Sammy from seeing <em>anymore</em> than he already has.</p><p>The fabric scratches and aggravates his hypersensitized skin’s surface, but Dean can’t think about that, right now.</p><p>Dean shivers and rises to his feet on <em>wobbly</em>, <strong>Jell-O-like</strong> legs.</p><p><em>‘This <strong>can’t</strong> be happening! This can’t <strong>happen</strong>!’ </em>Dean thinks to himself on repeat.</p><p>
  <em>Over, and over. </em>
</p><p>Again, and again in his head.</p><p>So, many things, Dean, has to <em>tell</em> Sammy now—so many things that were <strong>never</strong> supposed to see the light of day.</p><p>And standing next to Baby—looking into Sam’s <strong><em>eyes</em></strong>, Dean, can see this <strong>disgust</strong> shadowed in them, like this horrid, <em>festering</em> thing.</p><p>In all the time, Dean, has been close to Sammy—<em>raised Sammy</em>—Sammy has never looked at him like this.</p><p>With such distrust—such pure <strong>uncensored</strong> betrayal.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>This isn’t gonna be like it was every time <strong>before</strong>—<em>and Dean senses that</em>—sees that immediately.</p><p>But he has to <strong>try</strong>.</p><p>Sammy is yelling and gonna wake people up—God, people are gonna <em>know</em> and Sammy <strong>wants</strong> them, too!</p><p>All, Dean, can think about is what he has always thought about when it comes to people knowing things—<em>no one can know!</em></p><p>So, he tells Sammy to <strong>listen</strong> to, Dad, because Dad was—<strong><em>is</em></strong>—making sense. This is <strong>private</strong>—<em>it needs to stay private</em>—but Sammy only sees it as a further betrayal of his <strong><em>person</em></strong>.</p><p>Of course, Sammy, <strong>would</strong> see it that way!</p><p>Dean is afraid to speak, afraid to say anything, ‘cause … <em>well,</em> ‘cause, he doesn’t want to say another <em>‘wrong’</em> thing and piss Sammy off even more.</p><p>Oh, but then Dad goes and calls Sammy <em>out</em> for his countless hours <em>(countless days and months and years)</em> spent underneath, <em>Dean,</em> and Dean can’t believe what he is <strong>hearing</strong>.</p><p>‘Cause, Dad, was <strong><em>never</em></strong> supposed to know!</p><p>Dad never was supposed to find out that Dean broke <strong><em>all</em></strong> of his promises <em>(from way back when)</em> about persuading Sammy into bed with him! About taking his <strong><em>pleasure</em></strong> from Sammy!</p><p>Finding out that, Dad, has known <em>practically</em> this whole damn time! Well—<em>that more than shocks him</em>—it fucking scares the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> outta, Dean!</p><p>‘Cause, Dad, is this <em>wildcard</em>—this streak of dark and specks of light that Dean has never been able <em>(will never be able)</em> to <strong>peg</strong> down in his head—in his heart or his <strong><em>mind</em></strong>, even—and now <strong>Sammy</strong> is in the crossfire!</p><p>Something, Dean, would have laid down his <strong>life</strong> to prevent!</p><p>Then, they are fighting—<em>actually fighting</em>—and Dean is scared for Sammy. ‘Cause in this moment, <strong>flashbacks</strong> of Dad snapping his wrist like a twig, rise to the surface.</p><p>After his mind takes a few seconds to process what he is <em>seeing</em> with his own two eyes, Dean, jumps into gear, and tears Dad off of Sammy—before he can cause any <strong>lasting</strong> damage.</p><p>The second, Dad, is right-side up <em>(and on his feet)</em> Dean sends, Dad, a look that <em>(Dean hopes anyway)</em> reminds, Dad, of <strong>their</strong> agreement.</p><p>Dad would <em>never</em> do to, Sammy, what he has done—<em>continues to do</em>—to <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>Dad wipes the blood from his mouth and gets this hard-edge in his eyes, that makes them <em>impossible</em> for Dean to read, correctly.</p><p>And, in the next second, Sammy, is asking Dad questions that Dean would rather he didn’t—that Dean <strong>wants</strong> to tell, Sammy, himself—once all this <strong><em>shit</em></strong> has calmed down!</p><p>Oh, but Dad is throwing him under this bus—this bus that can’t be wrangled out from under, no matter how <strong>hard</strong>, Dean, fucking tries to <em>move</em> it!</p><p>Telling, Sammy, the truth<em>, (at least part of it):</em> that Dean climbed into Dad’s bed and started this whole <em>sick-wrong-bad,</em> need-like, <strong>fester</strong> of atrocity, between them.</p><p>This is—<em>was</em>—ultimately, Dean’s own fault—<em>all of it.</em></p><p>And, Dean, can’t deny it, with Sam looking at him like this kicked puppy, with <em>disbelief</em> and horror.</p><p>Dean can’t deny <strong><em>any</em></strong> of it!</p><p>
  <em>Period!</em>
</p><p>And, Dad, is side-eying, him right now, because he knows that, Dean, can’t <strong>rightly</strong> deny it.</p><p>Not in full—and Dean tries to <strong><em>reason</em></strong> with, Sammy. He is trying so <strong>fucking</strong> hard, but Sammy is stubborn and bull-like, just like <strong>Dad</strong> is—<em>and he won’t stop</em>—<strong><em>won’t listen</em></strong><em>!</em></p><p>And Dean is on the <strong>brink</strong> of panic, again.</p><p>Then—Sammy says the <strong>one</strong> thing that, breaks Dean into little pieces, right here and now.</p><p>
  <em>‘I applied to Stanford.’</em>
</p><p>That sentence—along with the <em>rest</em> of Sammy’s words hit, Dean, like this <em>rock-like </em>weight—and his heart <strong>nearly</strong> gives out on him.</p><p>Sammy—<strong><em>his</em></strong><em> Sammy</em>—<em>his damn</em> <strong><em>kid</em></strong>—the boy he raised; has loved <strong>unconditionally</strong> throughout <strong><em>years</em></strong>, is gonna up-and-<em>leave?!</em></p><p>Break the one promise they were both supposed to never, <em>ever</em> break?!</p><p>
  <em>Just like that?!</em>
</p><p><em>‘Oh, God!’</em> Dean thinks to himself, <em>‘I’m losing Sammy!’</em></p><p>And he wants to storm at, Sammy! Wants to <strong>cling</strong> to him and promise him the whole damn <strong><em>world</em></strong> if he will only stay and listen—but there isn’t a <strong>chance</strong> for that.</p><p>Before, Dean, can barely get a word in edgewise <em>(and prevent another fistfight by throwing himself between Dad and Sam)</em> Sam is already <strong><em>heading</em></strong> for the motel! Already inside with the door <strong>slammed</strong>—and Dean feels his knees buckle and has to brace himself against Baby’s door to remain <em>upright</em>.</p><p>This <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> be happening! Not to him! Not after <em>everything</em> that he has done to keep that kid from being <strong><em>privy</em></strong> to this sickness!</p><p><strong> <em>Fuck</em> </strong> <em>!</em></p><p>Dean can’t right his <em>head</em> right now—<em>can’t see through his thoughts</em>—because he doesn’t know <strong>how</strong> to do this, without Sammy.</p><p>What is he supposed to <em>do?</em> How can he <em>ever</em> convince, Sammy, of the truth of things, <em>now?!</em></p><p>Especially after all the <strong><em>lies</em></strong> he’s told? Why should Sammy believe the truth, <em>now?!</em></p><p>Dad just made him a <em>‘slut,’</em> in Sammy’s eyes—and really, Dean, made <strong><em>himself</em></strong> a slut in Sammy’s eyes when he chose this lifestyle of sleeping around, so maybe this <strong><em>is</em></strong> what he deserves.</p><p>Sammy always deserved better than this life—than what <em>Dad</em> made Dean <strong>become</strong>.</p><p>What, Dad, pushed Dean into being—<em>doing</em>—that one time when he took Sammy away. And then, again, when Dad fought him about giving him <em>‘free’</em> pills.</p><p>Dean focuses on what he <strong><em>can</em></strong> fix, right now, and that is <em>Dad</em>. Dad, and his cuts and scrapes from the fight.</p><p>“L-Lemme clean you up …” Dean whispers in this shocked-oblivion, with this hoarse, <em>scratchy-ish</em> voice that doesn’t really sound like <strong>his</strong>, even to his own ears.</p><p>Dad doesn’t fight him on this, just heads back into the motel room with, Dean, latched onto his arm to keep him <em>standing</em>.</p><p>Once, in the motel room, Dean, feels his stomach lurch, watching Sammy stuffing all of his possessions into his go-bag, with this furious expression on his face, that lets Dean know that nothing he <strong>says</strong> is gonna change what is happening, right now.</p><p>So, Dean, doesn’t <strong>try</strong>.</p><p>He is quiet <em>(later on he will come to understand that he was in shock and regret not trying, but Dean regrets his whole damn life, so there’s that)</em> and Dad—<em>surprisingly</em>—is quiet, too, for <strong>once</strong>.</p><p>Especially, considering the <em>c-bomb</em> Sammy just dropped on <strong>both</strong> their heads.</p><p>Dean goes through the all-too-familiar motions. Getting out the first-aid kit, wrestling off Dad’s blood-stained shirt, and dabbing at the <em>various</em> flesh-wounds gained in the fight.</p><p>This isn’t the first time, Dean, has fixed-up Dad’s wounds, but it <em>is</em> the first time he’s fixed up wounds inflicted on Dad by <strong>Sam</strong>. Dean has fixed, Dad, up more times than he can even <em>count</em>. Thought, Dad, might even <strong>die</strong> a couple times from them—but if there is one thing, Dean, has come to accept over the years, it is that Dad is one <strong><em>tough</em></strong> bastard.</p><p>Thick-skinned, like <em>any</em> former marine.</p><p>Dean keeps mulling over in his head, how to <em>say</em> something to Sam before he goes—how to at least <strong><em>try</em></strong> to get Sammy to hear him out, but Dean <em>can’t</em> figure a way.</p><p>Dean knows the stubbornness in his brother—knows that it is damn near impossible to convince Sam of anything different once he gets a <strong><em>thought</em></strong> in his head.</p><p>That is just <em>how</em>, Sam, is.</p><p>Just like, <strong>Dad</strong>.</p><p>Stubborn to a <strong><em>fault</em></strong>.</p><p>Part of, Dean, is hoping that Sam will just leave for a night or two, blow off some steam, and come back—Dean hopes that after spending all Sam’s life, together, that Sam would come <strong>back</strong>—maybe even pick up a <em>phone</em> and hear him out.</p><p>Listen to what he has to say—but that hope <strong><em>dies</em></strong> in Dean the second Sam walks to that door, and Dad tells him <em>‘if he walks out that door, to never come back,’ </em>and Sam looks at them both with this tough-as-nails exterior and says <em>(in the most soul-crushing way)</em> that he <em>‘never wants to see either one of them again.’</em></p><p>And is<em>, gone.</em></p><p>Just, like <strong><em>that</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Just. <strong>Gone</strong>.</em>
</p><p>Something inside of, Dean, snaps when that door <strong>closes</strong>.</p><p>The façade, Dean, has put-up—the walls on top of walls on top of <em>brick</em>-<strong><em>fucking</em></strong>-<em>walls</em>, that live inside Dean’s overstressed cranium—<em>fucking blast apart.</em></p><p>And the instant the weight of Sammy—<em>of his all-consuming presence</em>—is actually freaking <em>gone?!</em></p><p>Dean can’t <strong><em>handle</em></strong> it.</p><p>Can’t handle <em>this!</em></p><p>Lowering the rag, he was using to clean the battered skin on Dad’s arm, Dean, starts to <strong>hyperventilate</strong>.</p><p>Flashes of memories flood through Dean’s mind in a <em>nanosecond</em>. Overwhelming him—threatening to <strong>suffocate</strong> him under the weight of it.</p><p>And Dean wants to scream—<em>wants to fucking die!</em></p><p>Dean becomes grossly aware of the seed stuck to his belly, through his t-shirt <em>(that he for some reason hasn’t even thought about until right now)</em> and with a shaking hand, Dean, starts scrubbing the bloodied <strong>rag</strong> at the front of his shirt.</p><p>Unable to even register that he is using a wet rag on the <strong><em>outside</em></strong> of his <em>shirt</em> and therefore not truly cleaning anything—<em>but he just wants it <strong>off</strong> of him.</em></p><p>This taint—this <strong><em>filth</em></strong> that Sammy saw on him!</p><p>Dean wants <em>(most of all)</em> to erase the bewildered and sickened look on Sammy’s face when he <strong>saw</strong> it!</p><p>Dean must have dropped to the floor at some point, because, he registers the motel carpet under his knees, and through his blurred vision <em>(wrecked with tears)</em> Dean sees Dad knelt in front of him—and feels Dad <strong>shaking</strong> him.</p><p>Dad’s lips are moving, but it takes Dean a good, long minute to <em>register</em> what is being said.</p><p>“Stop. Dean. You <strong><em>have</em></strong> to calm yourself, Boy,” Dad instructs and Dean sniffles, trying to work his way outta this havoc.</p><p>Dad is <em>all</em> Dean has, now—<em>even if Dad is one of Dean’s worst nightmares</em>—<em>worst <strong>fears</strong></em>—sometimes, Dad, has been this <strong>one</strong> constant that <em>always</em> comes back.</p><p>Albeit, drunk and bitter, sometimes—<em>angry even</em>—but Dean remembers his deep-seeded fear from his childhood. This thing that has kept him from <em>seizing</em> Sammy and running away from Dad.</p><p>Dad is still, <strong><em>Dad</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>And Sammy … Sammy was just given a <em>taste</em> of what sorta disgusting <strong><em>filth</em></strong> lies in Dean’s background and turned tail and <em>ran</em>—far and fast, like the <strong>dickens</strong>.</p><p>But, Dad, is <em>still</em> here—Dean still <strong><em>has</em></strong>, Dad.</p><p>It is all his fractured <em>(traumatized)</em> psyche can hold on to.</p><p>Dad is <strong>here</strong>. Dad didn’t <strong><em>leave</em></strong> him, like Sammy <strong>just</strong> did.</p><p>Dean drops the rag, letting the soggy thing drop to the carpet and stares tearfully into Dad’s eyes.</p><p>“S-Sammy’s <strong><em>gone</em></strong>, Dad …” Dean whispers, like it is some sorta <em>news</em> or something—like Dad didn’t just witness and help <strong>cause</strong> Sam to leave.</p><p>
  <em>To <strong>run</strong>!</em>
</p><p>Dean can’t stop his tears—<em>can’t stop fucking crying</em>—and Dad is looking at him, <strong>still</strong>, with this <em>sympathetic</em> expression on his face.</p><p>“Yeah, he is, but we <strong>can’t</strong> fall apart,” Dad insists, but Dean can’t hear this <em>right</em> now.</p><p>Can’t hear the <em>‘tough-it-out-an’-keep-fightin,’ </em>speech right now.</p><p>“Cause his sick, <strong>depraved</strong> actions caused <strong><em>all</em></strong> of this. Caused Sammy to walk out that door, caused Dad to wanna <strong><em>flambé</em></strong> his skin at every turn—caused Dad to grow to <strong><em>resent</em></strong> his very skin and bones enough to beat him into that <strong><em>coma</em></strong>.</p><p>For a split-second, Dean, wishes that Dad <strong><em>would</em></strong> have killed him that night, in Baby.</p><p>Beat his head in, just one time, too, many with that <strong>blunt</strong> object. Not just enough to <em>taint</em> his hearing, but to actually <strong><em>put him</em></strong> six-feet-under.</p><p>Then … Sammy could have mourned him <strong>properly</strong>.</p><p>Mourned Dean the way he was <em>(in Sammy’s eyes before tonight)—mourned him as the big brother that loved and protected him</em>—not the big brother that is <strong><em>dead</em></strong> to him while still walking this Godforsaken shit-hole of a planet, with this useless heart that aches and bleeds with <em>every</em> beat.</p><p>No—Dad <strong><em>had</em></strong> to keep him alive.</p><p>Alive to endure <em>this …</em></p><p>Make sure, Dean, eventually came to lose <strong><em>everything</em></strong> good in this world—<em>everything happy</em>—and <strong>beautiful</strong>.</p><p>Sammy <strong>won’t</strong> forgive him. All it takes is one time—<em>one betrayal</em>—for Sammy to lose <strong>faith</strong> in someone.</p><p>For, Sammy, to <strong>hate</strong> someone—<em>forever.</em></p><p>“No, Dad! <strong><em>You</em></strong> can’t fall apart, but <strong><em>I</em></strong> can! I <strong>have</strong>! Don’t you <em>understand</em>?! I … I can’t <strong>do</strong> this <em>without</em> him! Without, <em>Sammy!</em> Everything I have <strong>ever</strong> done is for that kid! ‘Cause he is <strong><em>my</em></strong> kid, Dad! <em>Mine!</em> I did <strong><em>all</em></strong> of this! All of <strong><em>it</em></strong> to be with <strong>him</strong>! To … To make him <strong>happy</strong>! An’ I tried to stop him lovin’ me! I tried so <strong><em>damn</em></strong> hard, Dad! I freakin’ did! An’ … an’ now he’s <strong>gone</strong> an’ he <em>hates</em> me an’ he <strong><em>should</em></strong> hate me! He <em>should!</em> Cause I felt bad ‘bout lookin’ like <strong>Mom</strong>! An’ I gave myself to <strong>you</strong> … an’ I just <em>keep</em> doin’ it! An’ I <strong>lost</strong> him ‘cause I’m all <em>twisted-up</em> inside and I—”</p><p>Dean’s words cut out as his <em>airway</em> blocks up with tears and this <strong>massive</strong>, lump and he can’t physically <strong><em>breathe</em></strong> past it.</p><p>It feels like this wall is blocking him from speech—<em>blocking him from everything</em>—and he lets out this choked-sob of pain, that morphs into this wail-like scream—and Dad’s arms are <strong>suddenly</strong> around him.</p><p>Holding him, rocking him, trying to <strong><em>stop</em></strong> this meltdown that is already, here—<em>already taking over every bone and fixture in his damn body</em>—and there is no stopping this, but Dad tries.</p><p>
  <em>Dad is trying!</em>
</p><p>Dean can feel Dad’s fingers in dragging against his skelp in this <strong>gentle</strong> manner, that is <em>uncharacteristic</em> for, Dad, but in all fairness, Dad, has never <strong>witnessed</strong> one of Dean’s meltdowns before—never seen <strong>anything</strong> like this, because Dean has gotten so damn good about keeping everything <em>inside</em>, where it belongs.</p><p>But, not <strong><em>this</em></strong> time.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>There is no <strong><em>off</em></strong><em>-switch</em> anymore, because his Goddamn anchor <em>(that tethers him here and keeps him fucking sane and able to shut down for Dad)</em> just waltzed out that door with a full-ride to <strong>Stanford</strong>—and no chains to pull him <strong>back</strong> here!</p><p>
  <em>Oh, God!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sammy is gone!</em>
</p><p>Another wail-like sob, wrenches from Dean’s throat and he fights in Dad’s arms to <em>break free</em>. Tries to break this too-tight hold, but he <strong>can’t</strong>—and Dean gives up, because he suddenly realizes that this <em>‘too-tight’</em> hold is currently the single-most thing that is keeping his body from <em>coming apart!</em></p><p>And Dean feels <strong>empty</strong> <em>and</em> <em>full</em> with all these emotions that are crushing him, all at once.</p><p><em>“Dean! Shhhh! Shhhhh! Shit!” </em>Dad is trying to soothe him—<em>trying to calm him down</em>—but it isn’t working.</p><p><strong>Nothing</strong> is working!</p><p>Everything hurts, <em>everywhere</em>—‘cause Dean can’t register in his head that Sammy doesn’t <strong>want</strong> him anymore—that when Sammy finally saw him for who and what he truly is, that Sammy was actually outright <strong><em>repulsed</em></strong> by him.</p><p>Dean is like a ragdoll in Dad’s arms, now, with tears streaking down his face—<em>and this ache</em>—<em>the cut-out size of Sammy</em>—where his heart <strong>used</strong> to be.</p><p>“You gotta find <em>somethin’</em> to hold on to, Boy. Ya gotta find something to <strong>cling</strong> to. Something—<strong><em>anything</em></strong>. I know how you <strong>loved</strong> him, an’ how <em>wrong</em> that love became—but you gotta, find some <strong>reason</strong> to put yourself back together. You can’t go losin’ your <strong><em>head</em></strong> on me!” Dad is talking—<em>trying to reason with him</em>—but Dean is <strong>still</strong> in the thick of it.</p><p>Still in this weave of <strong>abhorrent</strong> pain that just won’t Goddamn <em>die!</em></p><p>Dean prayed to God—<em>to God’s angels</em>—to keep Sammy <strong>with</strong> him. To let him <em>have</em> Sammy—<em>have this one thing</em>—and this is the final <strong>betrayal</strong> from the <em>heavens</em>. The final reason, Dean, is <strong>never</strong> gonna open his heart to <strong><em>that</em></strong> place.</p><p>Such a <em>fucked-up</em> place—<em>idea.</em></p><p>Why did Mom have to tell him that <strong><em>angels</em></strong> were watching over him, when none of it is <em>true?! </em>Not a single <strong>iota</strong> of it is true!</p><p>Mom and her <em>‘angels’</em> idea, is the <strong>last</strong> thing, Dean, thinks about before he blacks out in Dad’s arms from lack of <strong>air</strong>—<em>and panic.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When, Dean, opens his eyes next, the shape of Dad is fast-asleep <em>next</em> to him.</p><p>It is evident that Dad sat up as long as he could probably, hoping—<em>praying</em>—that Dean might wake up if he just waited patiently. But, Dad, is <em>snoring</em>, now.</p><p>Arms folded across his chest, head back against the headboard, and still fully-clothed at Dean’s side.</p><p>The first thought that comes to mind is, <em>‘Where’s Sammy?’</em></p><p>Then it all comes <strong>rushing</strong> back, like this sweep of doom-like <em>death</em> that makes, Dean, inwardly cringe and want to scratch out his own <strong>eyes</strong> so that he can’t see the image of Sammy <em>staring</em> at him with this hurt, <strong>confused</strong> look—then leaving him behind like the <strong><em>trash</em></strong> he already <strong>knows</strong> that he is.</p><p>Dean takes <em>one</em> solemn glance at, Dad, then climbs outta bed.</p><p>Immediately, Dean, notices that Dad changed him while he slept. He is only in a pair of boxers and one of Dad’s flannels, now. His jeans and shirt <em>(that was stuck to him with seed)</em> are nowhere in sight and he lifts up the buttoned flannel, observing the <em>lack</em> of seed on his belly.</p><p>Dad must have cleaned him <em>up</em>, too.</p><p>Dean pads into the bathroom and shuts the door with a near-silent <em>‘click,’</em> flicking on the overhead light, illuminating this <em>empty</em>, sad-looking space in this bright-white florescent light.</p><p>In the back of his mind, Dean, can still make-out the shape of Sammy, lingering on the toilet-seat lid, tapping away at the laptop, Dad, purchased him for, <em>Christmas</em>, last year, while Dean showered.</p><p>It hits him, brutal—<em>and sudden</em>—that Sammy isn’t gonna be here, anymore. Isn’t gonna <strong>follow</strong> him into the bathroom like some kinda friggin’ puppy-dog, every time he comes <em>in</em> here.</p><p>It is the <strong>stupidest</strong> thing to miss about <em>his</em>, Sammy, but it is the thing that he misses, <strong><em>most</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>The companionship.</em>
</p><p>And it is this sudden—<em>crippling thing</em>—and Dean hurries back out of the bathroom in search of his cell phone.</p><p>Dean knows, Sammy, took <em>his</em> with him, which means that he <strong>might</strong> be able to call—might be able to <strong><em>make</em></strong> Sammy listen to him, this way!</p><p>Dean searches for his phone and finally finds it in his duffle-bag—and stops when he spots his <em>‘Oxy,’</em> tucked next to it, with a mostly-full bottle of <strong><em>cheap</em></strong> whiskey, next to it.</p><p>Dean pops a pill, and snatches up the bottle, hurrying back into the bathroom, Dean, closes and <em>locks</em> the door, and huddles in the corner, nearest the toilet, sets down the bottle next to him, and <strong>frantically</strong> dials Sam’s number.</p><p>
  <em>It rings and rings and rings.</em>
</p><p><strong> <em>No answer</em> </strong> <em>.</em></p><p>The <em>more</em> it rings—the <strong>worse</strong> Dean’s stomach sinks into this pit-like state.</p><p><strong> <em>Fuck</em> </strong> <em>!</em></p><p>“C’mon, Sammy! <em>Please!”</em> Dean whispers uselessly into the <strong>receiver</strong>, but it goes to Sammy’s voicemail and Dean’s eyes <em>well</em> with tears.</p><p>He sits here and dials it over and over, getting the same voicemail with Sammy’s voice on it saying <em>‘This is Sam, leave a message,’</em> over and over and over again!</p><p>Finally, Dean, realizes he has <strong>no</strong> choice—Sammy is gonna force him to do this over a <strong>freakin’</strong> voicemail!</p><p>When it clicks off to the beep, Dean, takes a breath and whispers through his tears: “Sammy, <em>please! </em>Please, <em>pick up</em> the phone. I … I can’t <strong>lose</strong> you, Sammy. I … I won’t <strong><em>survive</em></strong> losing you, an’ I really, <em>really</em> mean that, <em>K-Kiddo—”</em> he trips up on the use of such a <strong>playful</strong> nickname, while trying to get through something so damn <strong>serious</strong>, but it’s second nature to call Sammy that—<em>Kiddo</em>—Sammy is <strong>always</strong> gonna be <strong><em>his</em></strong> <em>kid …</em> <em>his <strong>kiddo</strong> …</em> Even if he never speaks to him again … “—I … I know you <em>think—”</em> Dean fists one of his hands tightly and breathes through it, “—I know I <strong>betrayed</strong> you—what we <em>have</em>—but I … You gotta believe I did it for the <em>right</em> reasons. Just like I a-always <em>do</em>, Sammy. I know you’re <strong>confused</strong> an’ I know I fuckin’ <em>hurt</em> you—I <em>know</em> that—but please, please, <em>hear me out!</em> You gotta know that I did what I <strong><em>did</em></strong> to make your life <em>better …</em> It might not seem like it right <em>now</em>, but I … I was—<em>am</em>—<strong><em>protecting</em></strong> you—”</p><p>The voicemail cuts off and the call goes out and Dean curses under his breath, unscrews the cap on the whiskey, takes two long gulps …</p><p>
  <em>… and dials back.</em>
</p><p>“Sammy, I hope to <em>God</em> you’re gonna <strong>listen</strong> to these. I need you to know that what I did with <em>Dad</em> was so he would <strong><em>never</em></strong>, ever, lay a <em>finger</em> on you. That you gotta <strong>believe</strong>, Baby Boy, I ain’t never gonna let him <em>hurt you</em>—I’ve kept you <em>safe</em>. Kept you <em>good …</em> <strong>Sammy</strong> …” It takes Dean a lot longer to get those words out and the damn thing cuts off on him, again.</p><p>Dean dials back a <strong><em>multitude</em></strong> of times, leaving different messages, all with the same <em>pleading</em>, heartbroken tone to his voice.</p><p>All begging for Sammy to listen—<em>to please fucking call!</em></p><p>In-between dials he drinks and drinks until the bottle’s half gone and words are starting to slur on him from the pill and the booze.</p><p>Dean takes another swig of the bitter liquid, and decides to dial, <em>one last time.</em></p><p>“Sammy … You’re the <strong><em>only</em></strong> thing … the only <em>person</em> I’ve ever … ever <em>l-loved—”</em> Dean chokes on the word and twin tears track down his cheeks, that word has such a broken, crooked meaning to Dean, now, that it takes <em>everything</em> for him to get it out, “—an’ the o-only … <em>only</em> one that can m-make me <em>feel</em> … f-feel <em>anything</em> … a-at <strong>all</strong> …” Dean feels himself choke on the sobs, on the tears—on his pain—and sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “… it’s s-so <strong>empty</strong> i-inside-a me, Sammy … so <em>broken</em> and h-hollow … and … I … I <em>c-can’t</em>—just please d-don’t leave me l-like <strong>this</strong> …” Dean struggles to say the next bit, and clenches his fist, tight around the amulet Sam gave him so many Christmases’ ago, now, but has kept him going through <strong><em>everything</em></strong> that’s come that he can’t <strong>conceivably</strong> part with it, “I-If … if you … if you n-need me <em>to … to</em> be the one <strong>u-under</strong> you, S-Sammy I … I’ll <strong><em>be</em></strong> that … I … just come <em>b-back</em> to me … just come back an’ I’ll be <em>whatever</em> y-you <strong><em>need</em></strong> me to b-be … <em>I p-promise.”</em></p><p>The phone clicks off again and Dean thinks about giving up, but decides to dial, one final—<strong><em>final</em></strong>—time.</p><p>“F-Forgive me, S-Sammy … Just … I … I <em>f-fucked</em> you up f-from the start an’ I … I can o-only ever be s-so … so <em>damn</em> s-sorry. I w-won’t <strong>call</strong> anymore … just <em>… I love you, S-Sammy …</em> more than you c-could <em>ever</em> imagine.”</p><p>Dean hangs up before the message system can do it <em>for</em> him, this time. And lets the phone drop to the floor with a little <em>‘clank,’</em> and wipes his tears.</p><p>Nothing has ever stung worse than this, than <strong><em>feeling</em></strong> this.</p><p>The loss of Sammy is <em>painful</em>, beyond belief—beyond actual <em>comprehensible words</em>—beyond <em>anything</em>.</p><p><em>Everything</em>.</p><p>Worse even than after he woke from that coma with <em>broken</em> body-parts that <strong><em>still</em></strong> ache with <strong>residual</strong> memories of those wounds, even <em>today</em>.</p><p>The depth of this pain is just <strong><em>growing</em></strong>—sinking underneath his skin until it is <em>impossible</em> to feel <strong>anything</strong> else, but this—<em>this <strong>agony</strong>.</em></p><p>The rest is just <strong>numb</strong>. There is a fine line between this pain in his <em>heart</em> and this numb, <strong>filthy</strong> scourge that is his skin and muscles and bone.</p><p>Dean wasn’t <em>lying</em> to Sammy in the voicemail—<em>Sam is</em>—<em>was</em>—the <strong>only</strong> person that can make him <em>feel.</em></p><p>Feel <strong>love</strong>—<em>feel warmth and light</em>—feel anything that is <strong>real</strong>, that isn’t <em>faked</em> or part of his body’s <strong>natural</strong> reactions to things that <em>(in theory)</em> should feel good and pleasant.</p><p>Like, sex with, Dad, random chicks, or sleazy men in alleyways and car-backseats.</p><p>Sex should feel <strong>pleasurable</strong>—<em>good</em>—fucking <strong>glorious</strong>, but it has never given Dean <em>anything</em> short of this hollow, empty ache in the <strong>aftermath</strong>.</p><p>It leaves a bitter-taste and a <em>sinful</em> mark on his weathered heart.</p><p>Dean is starting to realize—that that sinful mark he felt, was of betrayal. From betraying <strong>Sammy</strong> to commit those acts.</p><p>Dean rises to his feet and takes another swig from this bottle of <strong>bitter</strong> liquid.</p><p>Stares and stands before the mirror, looking like he’s looked at himself a <strong><em>thousand</em></strong> times, over.</p><p>Takes in this <em>disgusting</em>, ugly depiction of freckled-skin on his cheeks and the deep, <em>dark-rimmed</em> depths of his greenish-darkish eyes. There are so many <strong>useless</strong> flaws in his skin—so many <strong><em>ugly</em></strong> little marks and worst of all—there is the <strong><em>dab</em></strong> of Mary Winchester whom resides in his very <em>inner make-up</em> and <em>DNA</em>, staring <strong>back</strong> at him.</p><p>Mom is the reason, Dad, <strong><em>took</em></strong> to him.</p><p>Mom dying is the whole damn <strong><em>reason</em></strong>, Dad, pulled away from him and drove, Dean, to <strong>pursue</strong> Dad to keep this stupid-ass family <strong><em>whole</em></strong>.</p><p>Mom started this warped, ball rolling, by Goddamn <strong><em>dying</em></strong> and Dad helped <em>finish</em> it, by wanting to keep <strong>indulging</strong> in, Dean, even after <em>all this time.</em></p><p>Dean feels himself <strong>starting</strong> to get all worked-up, again.</p><p>Feels the panic that is rising and <strong>sweeping</strong> through him like ocean-waves, feels this damn—<strong><em>everything</em></strong>—that is just gonna have him <strong>malfunction</strong>.</p><p>And finally, <em>finally</em>, just needs to release some of this—some of these <strong><em>damn</em></strong> emotions.</p><p>Lifting one of Dad’s wood-handled blades off the edge of the sink <em>(where Dad must have left it)</em> he slices at his forearms. Watching the crimson liquid surface and dribble from the cuts he’s made until there are smears on his <em>stupid</em>, ugly-ass skin, in little lines up the sides.</p><p>All that alcohol is starting to <strong><em>really</em></strong> take root—and mix with the pill he swallowed all of the sudden and, Dean, <strong>wobbles</strong> a bit on his feet.</p><p>
  <em>Head woozy.</em>
</p><p>Dean keeps tightly held to the blade and carefully unbuttons this light-brown-and-white, checkered flannel, Dad, put him in, revealing the <em>taut</em> skin of his stomach and abdomen. Then, shoves down and steps outta his <em>boxers</em>. Leaving his bottom-half exposed in this rather-large, <strong>mirror</strong>.</p><p>All it takes is a few seconds of <em>air</em> on his exposed manhood to get him <em>full-on erect</em>—like the, slutty, <em>ever-horny</em>, teenage body, he knows he has—<em>and Dean feels his stomach turn.</em></p><p>God, he fucking <strong>hates</strong> this body of his, so damn much.</p><p>Dad has always been <strong><em>right</em></strong> about him—<em>alcohol makes Dean needy.</em></p><p>Dean, flicks off the light, heading back out into the main room, and back up onto the bed where Dad is still <em>sound</em> asleep.</p><p>Dean keeps on the flannel, letting the blood stain through it at the sleeves, and climbs <em>up</em> astride Dad’s lap.</p><p>Dean lowers the blade to Dad’s arm and makes a meager cut. Dad hisses and <em>wrenches</em> his arm back, reflexively—waking up <strong><em>real</em></strong> quick.</p><p><em>“Dean</em>—What the <em>hell’s</em> the meanin’ of this, Boy?” Dad appears to be heavily confused as he observes, Dad, taking-in the blood-seeped sleeves of his flannel accompanied by the hard prod of Dean’s arousal that is, now, poking at Dad’s lower-stomach, through his layers.</p><p>Dean hates how easy—<em>how <strong>natural</strong>, even</em>---it is for his body to react in this sexually <strong>deviant</strong> manner.</p><p>And how he copes—<em>and gets these sick, outlandish urges</em>—to fuck his anxieties away, as <strong>punishment</strong>. And by <em>tainting</em> himself and bleeding his <em>grotesque</em> map of skin.</p><p>Without verbally answering, Dean, tilts forward and claims Dad’s lips. Lunging, melding, <em>scraping</em> his tongue across Dad’s rough-skinned lips, and plunging his way inside. Exploring this cavern with urgency, unrivaled by anything, Dean, has ever sought to <strong><em>take</em></strong> from Dad.</p><p>Even, Dad, is shocked by this sudden—<em>rough</em>—wake-up call.</p><p>The cut on Dad’s arm bleeds and oozes, and Dean changes hands with the blade, in order to run his fingers smoothly over the wound he’s made. Needing to <em>feel</em> Dad’s blood to know he’s <strong><em>here</em></strong>—this taint of blood is <strong>still</strong> between them—<em>still here.</em></p><p>Dad is still <strong><em>fucking</em></strong> here.</p><p>It is, Dad, <em>not</em>, Dean, whom draws back from their heat-induced kiss.</p><p>Dad narrows his eyes, clearly trying to read what the hell is going on in Dean’s head right now—but Dean would like to see Dad puzzle it out. Cause, <em>Dean</em>, doesn’t even know what is going on <em>inside</em> his own head, right now.</p><p>Everything feels <em>wrong</em> and he just fucking needs <strong>something</strong>—<em>anything—to take this pain</em>—<em>this fucking hurt</em>—away.</p><p>Even, <em>Dad</em>, will do.</p><p>“Oh, <strong><em>hell, </em></strong>Boy, You been drinkin’?” Dad rasps, with this disapproving tone. “An’ mixin’ <em>pills</em>, too?”</p><p>Dean half-chuckles, half-laughs. “Yeah? What of it? Like you’re one to talk ‘bout drinkin’? An’ mixin’ pills?” Dean isn’t <strong>afraid</strong> of, Dad, right now.</p><p>Isn’t much afraid of <strong>anything</strong>, really.</p><p>So, what if, Dad, gets angry? So, what if he <em>beats</em> him into the ground for bein’ a <em>‘Slutty little Faggot?’ </em>If Dad puts him six-feet-under, the way Dean sees it—<em>he wins.</em></p><p>Death is no longer a <strong>fear</strong> he has.</p><p>Hasn’t really been a fear for a while—<em>no</em>—the only thing Dean feared <em>(before)</em> was dying and leaving Sammy <strong><em>alone</em></strong> with, <em>Dad</em>. But Sammy doesn’t <strong>need</strong> Dean anymore—so, what would it matter if Dean <em>died?</em></p><p>If, Dad, wiped him off the face of this putrid, fucking, planet?</p><p>Dean uses the knife to slit at Dad’s other arm—Dad hisses through his teeth and his pupils <strong>dilate</strong>. In a swift movement, Dad, wrenches the blade from Dean’s <em>(bad-wristed)</em> hand, and <strong>chucks</strong> it across the room.</p><p>Dean hears it launch across the room, hit a wall, and drop to the floor with a loud <em>‘clatter,’ </em>but doesn’t care.</p><p>“What the <em>fuck,</em> Dean?” Dad shoves up the flannel sleeves seeped with blood, to judge the state of Dean’s <em>forearms</em> for himself.</p><p>Wetting his lips, Dean, looks Dad in the eye. Taking in this intense, <em>‘Winchester-tough,’ </em>exterior that Dad always portrays on the surface—<em>to Dean.</em></p><p>“You told me to find <strong><em>something</em></strong> to cling to. An’ the way I see it there ain’t nothin’ left but <strong>you</strong>, Dad. <strong><em>Just,</em></strong> you.”</p><p>Dad’s eyes keep this unreadable stare in them, but the twitch of Dad’s jaw gives away how <strong>aroused</strong>, Dean, is making, Dad. <em>Already,</em> Dean, can feel Dad stirring in his fetters, the thick <strong>bulk</strong> of his enclosed manhood is pulsing just underneath Dean’s thickly-swollen and <em>leaking</em> one.</p><p>Truth is, Dean, knows how to play <em>every</em> card there is against, Dad, by now. They’ve been doing this song and dance for what feels like <strong>forever</strong>—and even if Dad can’t make Dean <strong><em>feel</em></strong>, he can distract his <strong>mind</strong> from this crushing agony that will otherwise consume him if he <em>doesn’t</em> do this.</p><p>“I didn’ mean cling ta <strong><em>me</em></strong>, Boy,” Dad breathes—with this throaty-sounding <strong><em>thing</em></strong>, bare and raw in it.</p><p>Dean cocks his head to the side for a second. Then, reaches onto the bedside table for the bottle of whiskey that, Dad, must have been drinking while Dean was <em>out</em> and extends it to, Dad.</p><p>“I <strong>know</strong>. You still won’t touch me <em>sober,</em> will ya? I ain’t a little <strong>kid</strong> no more, Dad. I’ve been a man for <em>years</em>, now.”</p><p>Dad makes a noise between a grunt and a disagreeable sound, but doesn’t say a <strong>thing</strong>, to this observation.</p><p>Just swipes the bottle and takes long, swigs down the hatch.</p><p>When, Dad, has had his fill and topped off the bottle, Dean, plants his hands-on Dad’s broad shoulders and scooches up, Dad’s lap, until he is <em>pressed</em> to Dad’s front.</p><p>“You <em>know</em> what drinking does to me, Dad. Makes me <strong>hot</strong> for you—<em>hot for <strong>touch</strong></em>—for all things <strong>pleasurable</strong>.” Dean is determined to <strong>rile</strong>, Dad, up—<em>he wants to be put in his place</em>—wants to <strong>hurt</strong>, tonight.</p><p>Physically—to make up for this <em>heartache</em>.</p><p>Dad is starting to pant, so, Dean, helps him along by driving his hips down, brushing his tumid—<em>upthrust</em>—cock against Dad’s bulge in his jeans.</p><p>“Do I still <em>look</em> like her, to you? Still <em>remind</em> you of, <em>Mom?”</em> Dean eggs him on, seeing this fire-like <strong><em>lust</em></strong> broiling-up inside of Dad, <em>mounting heat.</em></p><p>Dad slides his hands over Dean’s thighs and grips into them, hard enough to <strong>bruise</strong>. One of Dad’s thumbs brushes over the brand-mark in Dean’s side, seared there so <em>many</em> years ago by a fire-poker that Dad punished him with—<em>once.</em></p><p>“Why’d you <strong>cut</strong> me, Boy?” Dad manages to get out through the pants in his throat. “What <strong><em>is</em></strong> this, huh? What’re you <em>tryin’</em> to do?”</p><p>Dean slides one of his hands down the front od Dad’s chest and lands his cut arm, down on Dad’s. Letting their blood come together—<em>mix.</em></p><p>“Cause I fuckin’ <strong><em>wanted</em></strong> to,” Dean tells him, frankly.</p><p>Dad wrangles, Dean, down onto the mattress and closes a <strong>tight</strong> fist around this <em>aroused</em> poke of flesh between, Dean’s thighs.</p><p>Shuddering from this <em>sudden</em> connection, Dean rolls his eyes and <strong>succumbs</strong> to the hard, rigorous strokes Dad’s applying to his fleshy bits.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck!</em>
</p><p>It rumbles through him, like this hot fire-poker, but it isn’t like what <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong> can stir in, Dean. Even <em>drunk</em>, it is difficult for Dean to feel anything but this <strong>surface</strong> of <em>stripped-baren</em> arousal of need.</p><p>His body is being <strong>tugged</strong>—<em>his flesh being <strong>appeased</strong></em>—but not his <strong>soul</strong>—not his inner-parts where only Sammy can touch and <strong>venture</strong>.</p><p>Dad gets Dean off in a matter of <strong>seconds</strong>.</p><p>Jerks his foreskin up and down and beats, Dean, off at the crown, until he spatters his seed up onto his own stomach.</p><p>Until, Dean, is a hot damn <em>mess</em>. Sweating and <strong><em>breathing</em></strong> for, Dad.</p><p>And Dad strips himself of his clothes, while Dean is in the smarmy <em>after-heat</em> of it all—<em>and at some point</em>—through the blur and the <strong>exhaustion</strong>—Dad is <strong><em>claiming</em></strong> him.</p><p>And it’s rough and unforgiving—<em>and fucking punishing.</em></p><p>It’s <strong><em>everything</em></strong>, Dean, wanted outta, tonight.</p><p>And Dean lays here and <em>takes</em> this brutality like a man</p><p><strong>Bleeds</strong> for Dad—like Dean made <em>Dad</em> bleed for him.</p><p>The circle comes full tilt and Dean’s heart and his head—crash and <strong>burn</strong> as he zones out and lets Dad <strong><em>take</em></strong> from him.</p><p>Let’s his body have what it <strong>needs</strong>—to make it through losing <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxiv. bitter loss &amp; downfall.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>This <em>new</em> reality doesn’t hit, Dean, all at once.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>It hits in slow, ocean-like waves that slake across the shores of Dean’s world and thrash him down when he <strong>least</strong> expects it.</p><p>After, two days of checking his cell phone and keeping it <em>(obsessively)</em> at a full-charge, Dean, comes to the realization that Sammy isn’t <em>gonna</em> dial him back.</p><p>That wave crashes square into his chest—<em>where his heart used to be</em>—and when it hits, Dean, is sitting at this shitty little table, while Dad scribbles away in his journal and <em>Dean (fraught with panicky sensations that were squeezing his chest)</em> drove the anxiety away with seven beers, followed up with bashing his fist through the motel wall.</p><p>Needless to say, he <strong>broke</strong> his hand and <em>rebroke</em> his fragile wrist—<em>felt the bones crack</em>—and Dad had to physically tear him away from the wall to <strong>stop</strong> him.</p><p>With his writing hand <em>(again)</em> in a cast, Dean, was forced to rely on his left, while hunting with Dad.</p><p>It was dangerous and Dad tried to tell him to take it easy <em>(not to hunt for a little while)</em> but Dean ignored Dad and did it, anyway.</p><p>Hunting was the only thing <strong>capable</strong> of keeping, Dean<em>, (even remotely)</em> sane.</p><p>‘Cause life without, Sammy? Well … it was making Dean a fucking <strong><em>basket</em></strong><em>-case.</em></p><p>The very worst thing is noticing the <strong>absence</strong> of, Sammy, everywhere, when he is in a motel room.</p><p>There is no Sammy to follow him into the bathroom while he does basic human things, like <strong>shower</strong>. There is no Sammy to monkey-cling to him while he <em>sleeps</em>, and no Sammy to stop the <strong>nightmares</strong> that run like this tangent <strong><em>thing</em></strong> in his dreams.</p><p>And the worst, being that there is no Sammy to keep him <strong>grounded</strong>—anchored to the <em>healthy</em> mindset, Dean, had acquired over those last years he had with, Sammy.</p><p>Dean didn’t know what to do with himself, in those first months without, Sammy.</p><p>All his life it was just ingrained in him to put Sammy, first. Which meant, Dean, often went without enough food to eat, <em>(even up until Sammy walked out),</em> or new clothes while he was still growing. More than once, Dean, had to wear <em>too-tight</em> shoes, because he couldn’t afford to buy a new pair for both himself and Sammy—<em>and didn’t want Sammy to suffer.</em></p><p>But with, Sammy <strong>gone</strong>? Money wasn’t a problem, <em>as much.</em></p><p>Because, all the money Dean made on pool, scams, and by <strong><em>other</em></strong> means, now, solely went towards him—<em>alone.</em></p><p>Dad acquired his own cash and didn’t need Dean to spot him any.</p><p>For the first time, Dean, was able to buy <strong>anything</strong>—<em>foodwise</em>—that he wanted. And after so many years of doing without—of getting used to a fatigued body and <strong>empty</strong> belly—Dean, could <em>finally</em> gorge himself.</p><p>And, he <strong>does</strong>.</p><p>As <strong>often</strong> as possible.</p><p>Pie, burgers, cakes, doughnuts—food has become a comfort.</p><p>Something to fill a void, left by <em>Sammy</em>.</p><p>Like bleeding his skin, and antagonizing grown-men into beating him bloody.</p><p>Food offers this consolation that nothing else comes close to. Not all the pills he can <strong>pop</strong>, not all the damn alcohol he can <em>consume</em>.</p><p>Dad seemed to notice the change in Dean’s appetite, <em>(almost right away)</em> but didn’t comment—still doesn’t. It isn’t like, Dean, has gained any weight. Not, with all the hunting they still partake in, regularly.</p><p>It doesn’t <em>hinder</em> the hunts, Dad, has no <em>reason</em> to intervene.</p><p>Dean found a new obsession that keeps him preoccupied <em>(even for just the time it took to devour it)</em> and that is the way it has stayed.</p><p>Those first months without, Sammy, were damn long and painful. There were nights with Dad, food binges, and almost painfully bloodied fists <em>(from getting in fights once his hand was healed)</em> and lots and lots of self-hating.</p><p>When, Dean, was at his loneliest, he would hull up in whatever bathroom, in whatever gross-ass motel they were currently staying, hold tight to the amulet, Sammy, gave him and <strong>cry</strong>.</p><p>Cry with the <em>shower</em> running—and if there was pie, he’d <strong><em>eat</em></strong> it, <strong>while</strong> he cried.</p><p>Like the pathetic, <em>disgusting</em>, loser, Dean, knew he was.</p><p>Sometimes, if, Dean, was at his <strong>worst</strong>—he would drive out to, Stanford, just to <em>spy</em> on, Sammy. Just to see him—<em>even though he didn’t dare walk up to him, to talk</em>—still does, actually.</p><p><strong>Spy</strong> on, Sammy.</p><p>Just to see if, Sammy, is fitting in with the other college students—just to see if, Sammy, is truly so <em>far</em> gone that he won’t <strong>ever</strong> come back …</p><p>And from what, Dean, has seen in <strong>those</strong> times, Sam, is.</p><p><em>Gone</em>, that is.</p><p>With Sammy gone, Dean, has <em>tried</em> to fill the void with lots and lots of time spent underneath, Dad. Donning, Dad’s, leather jacket as often as he <strong>can</strong>, to keep the only family member he has left—close as can be.</p><p>Dean has always wanted to be like, Dad. At least, he <strong><em>did</em></strong> wanna be like, Dad, anyway—and breaking Sammy’s heart is the sorta thing, Dad, is <strong>good</strong> at. So, in a messed-up way, Dean, feels like he already <strong><em>is</em></strong> just like, Dad.</p><p>The one person—<em>the only person</em>—that he’s ever gonna love is gone forever, same as <strong>Mom</strong>.</p><p>And, God, has he ever <em>tried</em> to patch-up this gaping hole that Sammy left when he <strong>fled</strong>, all that time, ago.</p><p>Dean has spent the last two nights, keeping tabs on Sammy from the shadows.</p><p>In fact, Dean, also watched Sammy <em>last</em> year around his birthday, too. Keeping tabs, as though, Dean, still has the <strong>right</strong> to look out for his little brother, after what <em>he</em> has done.</p><p>With no cases that either Dad or Dean have been able to seek out over the past week, they have both been staying in a motel, a few towns over from the Stanford campus.</p><p>Dad knows that Dean does this—<em>stalks Sammy around his birthday</em>—because Dad caught him <em>last year.</em> Drunk and sulking on the grass, outside Sammy’s dorm.</p><p>Dean can still remember how, Dad, didn’t say a word about it. Just drove him back to their motel in Baby—and accompanied Dean between the sheets.</p><p>Sammy’s birthday is chocked full of all this regret for, Dean. All this damn <em>pain</em> and <strong>remorse</strong> for what he’s done to, Sammy—for what he’s done in <strong>general</strong>.</p><p>For ruining, Sammy’s, whole damn <strong><em>life</em></strong>.</p><p> Dad is <strong>oddly</strong> sympathetic to the guilt Dean feels, which is <em>especially</em> bad around this time of year.</p><p>Yesterday, Dad, even drank with Dean in their motel, at the table and shared a few words with him.</p><p>“He was always gonna <em>leave</em>. Sammy is a free spirit. Ya know that, Dean. You raised ‘im to be,” Dad had said, with this little cant of his head.</p><p>“No, he <em>wasn’t</em>, Dad. Sammy would’a <strong>stayed</strong>. If I’d only been a <em>better</em>, big brother—if I never woulda <strong>touched</strong> him. If Id’a <strong><em>listened</em></strong> to you …”</p><p>Dean still can’t help but wonder, what might’ve happened if he <strong><em>had</em></strong> weaned Sammy off the touching.</p><p>Off of <strong>him</strong> … If, Dean, had only had the <em>strength</em> to let Sammy be, like a <strong>normal</strong> person would.</p><p>And, no matter how, Dad, tries to <em>console</em>, Dean, it is never gonna work. Because in the end, Sammy, is <strong>broken</strong> because of what, Dean, did.</p><p>And, Dean, <strong><em>knows</em></strong> it.</p><p>Dad was quiet after that. And eventually, Dean, had stripped off his clothes, shot a glance back at Dad, and Dad had <strong>joined</strong> him in bed.</p><p>And there was a <em>gentleness</em> to their togetherness, last night. Something <strong>broken</strong> in it. And just like every <em>other</em>, damn night, Dean, couldn’t feel a <strong>damn</strong> thing.</p><p>Nothing more than the flesh touching <em>flesh</em> and the heat spreading <strong>through</strong> him. No sparks, no <strong>light</strong>—<em>no Sammy to make him feel <strong>whole</strong>.</em></p><p>Dean, is on the verge of another breakdown.</p><p>This <em>‘not feeling,’</em> thing is starting to tear into his head—<em>to eat away at his very mind</em>—and it more than sucks.</p><p>It makes him feel <strong>gross</strong>.</p><p><em>Worthless</em>—like being on this damn Earth is fucking <strong>pointless</strong>.</p><p>Dad tries to hide it, but Dean knows that he, too, goes and spies on, Sammy, sometimes.</p><p>Dad always <em>loved</em> Sammy way more than he <strong>ever</strong> loved, Dean.</p><p>Sammy is the son to be <em>proud</em> of. Any and all corruption of Sammy—<em>is because of Dean.</em> And where, Dean, thought once that, Dad, would <strong>kill</strong> Sammy for being <em>‘queer,’</em> Dean, now realizes that Dad probably <em>accepts</em> that part of Sammy because it was <strong>inevitable</strong>.</p><p>Can Sammy <em>really</em> be blamed <em>(even in Dad’s mind)</em> for being a <strong>freak</strong> if Dean touched him and <strong><em>made</em></strong> him that way?</p><p>Dean left the motel—<em>left Dad asleep in their shared bed</em>—this morning in Baby, and has spent the day following Sammy.</p><p>Watching the <strong>sulk</strong> of Sammy’s shoulders—the light that doesn’t quite <em>touch</em> Sammy’s eyes when he smiles—<em>all of it.</em></p><p>Dean has been privy to the <strong>weakness</strong> in Sam. This kinda <em>broken</em> that, Dean, caused him to be. And when, Sammy, went into that bar in the afternoon and started ordering <strong>drinks</strong>? Well, Dean, felt the most <em>crushing</em> weight of all.</p><p>Dean, realized—<em>all at once</em>—that Sammy <strong>hates</strong> his birthday, now.</p><p>Hates this day that, <em>Dean</em>, used to make <strong>special</strong> for him. No matter what, Sammy, <strong>always</strong> had a birthday—<strong><em>always</em></strong>.</p><p>Last year, Sammy, just stayed in at his dorm, so it never really hit, Dean, that this day is now a day of <em>‘pain,’</em> for Sammy—a day of freaking <strong>torment</strong>!</p><p>The worst part of it all—<em>Sammy is all alone.</em></p><p>No <strong>friends</strong>, no <em>family</em>—<em>just himself, alone at a bar.</em></p><p>At least, Dean, has had, <em>Dad</em>, on his birthdays—not that the occasions have been even <strong>remotely</strong> happy for, Dean, either, but still … at least he wasn’t <strong>alone.</strong></p><p>
  <strong>Dean can’t watch Sammy drinking all day. </strong>
</p><p>This intense, emotionally damning pit in Dean’s stomach takes root, and the urge to feel <strong>something</strong> else—<em>anything else</em>—comes crashing in on, Dean, in the parking lot, right this instant.</p><p>So, he heads to this seedy bar <em>(on the other side of town)</em> and starts to drink. Not just a <strong>little</strong>, either.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>Dean drinks until he can’t see straight, then pops a <strong>pill</strong>, before he heads out into the alleyway out back—<em>and talks shit to the biggest dude out there.</em></p><p>And, God, was it <strong>ever</strong> a mistake!</p><p>
  <em>Such a mistake!</em>
</p><p>Dean doesn’t just get <strong>beat</strong> to hell—<strong><em>no</em></strong>—this man, is a sadist <em>(worse than any Dean’s known)</em> and <strong>stronger</strong> than Dean.</p><p>Bigger and <em>taller</em> than him.</p><p>And he wants, Dean, to <strong>hurt</strong>.</p><p>Dean feels the punches and kicks laid down on his <strong>flesh</strong>. But the worst sensation comes when this man pins him right against the alley-wall—<em>and fucks him.</em></p><p>It is hard—<em>painful</em>—fucking <strong>brutal</strong>, and Dean cringes as the bystanders <em>(clearly afraid of this man) </em>look on at Dean’s shame—<em>this demeaning humiliation.</em></p><p>By the time, Dean, walks away <em>(more like hobbles away)</em> there is blood on his clothes and Dad’s leather jacket, with <em>seed</em> and this other man’s <strong>scent</strong> coating him.</p><p>Dean still can’t <em>feel</em>, though. Yes, he can feel the <strong>pain</strong>—<em>the ache in his bones</em>—but not the <strong>emotions</strong>, he is still just this hollowed-out shell that, now, wants to <em>die</em>.</p><p>Wants to be <strong>comforted</strong>—<em>and loved</em>—but also wants to <em>die</em>.</p><p>Sammy is the only thing that can fix any of these tragically <strong>broken</strong> parts in him. Sammy is <em>it</em>—and Dean planned <em>(earlier)</em> to go to Sammy and offer him the <strong>one</strong> thing that broke them up in the <em>first</em> place.</p><p>The opportunity to be on <strong>top</strong>.</p><p>Dean always promised himself <em>(internally)</em> that if he was ever gonna allow, Sammy, to be <strong>inside</strong> of him—<em>if he could ever give Sammy this trust</em>—that it would be on Sammy’s <strong>birthday</strong>. This special day, that Dean has <strong>always</strong> made <em>‘good,’</em> for, Sammy, when he can.</p><p>This day of joy and beauty—this day that the universe granted Sammy <em>to</em> Dean.</p><p>This day means more to, Dean, than <em>any</em> other.</p><p>Always <strong>has</strong>, <em>always will.</em></p><p>And after, Dean, limped away from his <em>ruination</em>—from having his pride and dignity <em>shredded</em> apart in front of other people—<em>complete strangers</em>—by a human <em>‘monster,’</em> well … Dean just <em>needs,</em> <strong><em>his,</em></strong> Sammy.</p><p>Just <em>selfishly …</em></p><p>‘Cause, Sammy, is the <strong>one</strong> person—<em>the <strong>only</strong> person</em>—that might be able to <strong>soothe</strong> this wrecked-up <em>burn</em> that’s been drilled down into Dean’s soul. Just, maybe … if he <strong>tries</strong> … if he <strong>shows</strong> Sammy that he <strong>trusts</strong> him—that he is as <em>sorry</em> as anyone can <strong>ever</strong> be—that Sammy will agree to be <em>his</em>, again.</p><p>Even if it is only <strong>some</strong> of the time. Like when Dean can come visit, after a hunt. Maybe enough <strong>time</strong> has passed to allow Sammy to even <strong>remotely</strong> forgive him.</p><p>It has been <strong>two</strong> years—two <strong><em>long</em></strong>, friggin’ years.</p><p>So, after almost <em>two hours</em> of sobbing and recovering in Baby’s backseat, Dean, finally gets up enough <strong>gall</strong> to climb into the front, pop another pill to numb his pain—<em>and drive to Sammy’s dorm.</em></p><p>Breaking in, is <strong>easy</strong>. Picking a lock is as easy as anything and so, Dean waits. Until, Sammy, inevitably stumbles in, looking like <strong>hell</strong>.</p><p>Sammy has always been a <em>‘happy’</em> drunk.</p><p>Dean had been sneaking Sammy drinks ever since the first time, Sammy, convinced him to go all the way, with him.</p><p>Sammy has <em>always</em> been a floppy, handsy, <em>horny</em>—<em>drunk.</em></p><p>The opposite of, Dad, whom turns threatening and <strong>violent</strong> when he’s had <strong><em>way</em></strong> too much.</p><p>It takes everything inside of, Dean, to speak up. To approach, Sammy, with this air of <strong>seduction</strong> that he knows <em>(has always) </em>cracked a drunken, Sammy, before.</p><p>But, Dean, <em>miscalculated</em> the Sammy of <strong>today</strong>, versus the Sammy of <em>back</em> <em>then …</em></p><p><em>This</em>, Sammy, is bitter and angry with <strong>him</strong>—<em>furious</em>—actually. And, Dean, tries to soften him up with sweet words, with this little phrase that always <strong><em>melted</em></strong>, Sammy, <em>before</em>—but it only ticks Sammy <em>off</em> this time.</p><p>Dean had prevented, Sammy, from turning on the lights,</p><p>‘cause he didn’t want him to see this <em>sorry-ass </em>state, he’s in. The bruises and the <strong>humiliation</strong> that is probably written in his <em>eyes</em>, right now. It feels like that vile man in the <em>alley</em>, reached into his very soul and derailed something <strong>private</strong> and precious that no one should <em>ever</em> be able to see.</p><p>It was different than the other violent encounters, Dean, has experienced.</p><p>Dean, <em>(long ago) </em>stopped believing that anything could break him the way he broke the night, Sammy, chose to <strong><em>leave</em></strong>—but Dean misjudged <em>that</em>, too.</p><p>Dean <strong><em>is</em></strong> broken, tonight.</p><p>Was already broken, soul-deep, when he <strong>first</strong> stepped foot in Sammy’s dorm room.</p><p>And just wants something he has no <strong>right</strong> to ask for—and Sammy is giving him <strong><em>hell</em></strong> for it.</p><p>Giving him the hell, he <strong><em>deserves</em></strong>.</p><p>And though he <strong>did</strong> give, Sammy, <em>permission</em>—Dean never <em>once</em> thought Sammy would lord this permission over him, like this.</p><p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p><p>Nor, did he even think that his worst nightmares about Sammy growing bigger than him <em>(and able to take and pin him down)</em> would <strong>ever</strong> amount to anything …</p><p>Oh, but, Sammy, is <em>cruel</em>.</p><p>Cruel with this <strong>trust</strong>, Dean, extended him.</p><p>Cruel, ‘cause, Sammy, shocks Dean’s system with talk about <strong><em>that</em></strong> night … The night that Dad practically <strong>killed</strong>, Dean, and called it a <em>mugging …</em></p><p>If, Sammy, only knew what that night, <em>truly</em> was … what <strong><em>actually</em></strong> happened …</p><p>Dean is starting to <strong><em>panic</em></strong>—feel this tightness in his chest that <strong>screams</strong> for him to get, Sammy, <em>off</em>. This tightness had already started to spread in him, when, Sammy <strong>first</strong> climbed on top. But the mixture of pills and booze—<em>and extensive pain in his body</em>—made Dean able to <em>relax</em> himself a bit …</p><p>Until, Sammy, brought up the <em>‘mugging,’ </em>and Dean wants to tell him—<em>wants to reveal the truth</em>—but would Sammy even <strong>believe</strong> him if he told him? If he <strong><em>says</em></strong> it?</p><p>Sammy thinks that he fucks Dad for <strong>pleasure</strong>—that he does it ‘cause he <strong><em>wants</em></strong> to—but it wasn’t that way when, Sammy, was <strong><em>his</em></strong><em> …</em> It’s only that way now, ‘cause Dean is <strong>lost</strong> <em>… lonely …</em> trying to fill this stupid, <strong><em>fucking</em></strong> void …</p><p>Dean fists the sheets underneath him as, Sammy, pounds these words home in, Dean’s heart and mind. Uses his most soul-crushing weapon—<em>the mention of Dad and the rape from that night</em>—to really ram home that, Dean, is a sick, undeserving, <em>slut.</em></p><p>Unworthy of Sam, unworthy of love—<em>unworthy of pleasure</em>—of anything <em>good … </em></p><p>Dean blacked out after, Dad, bashed him about the head, <em>that night</em>, Dean, can still recall the distinct sensation of <em>peeing</em> himself. Of losing that <strong>last</strong> bit of dignity with Dad hovering over him …</p><p>But … Somewhere in his black-void of unconsciousness, Dad, must have gotten angry <em>(furious)</em> with him for pissing in the car—<em>like when he was little</em>—and taken it out <strong><em>inside</em></strong> of him.</p><p>Dean remembers how painful his ass was when he first woke up and that had been nearly a <strong><em>week</em></strong> after the fact ... And, Dean, knows that Dad, hadn’t fucked him <strong><em>before</em></strong> he passed out … but Dean never talked about it—not even in his own mind because the idea that Dad could do that … could see him <em>bloody</em>, broken—<em>and dying</em>—and still <em>get it up</em> and take <em>even <strong>more</strong></em> from him?</p><p>Even to, Dean’s, own mind, it’s <strong><em>unconscionable</em></strong>.</p><p>So, he had stashed it away—<em>safe in a box</em>—and Sammy just wrenched it all up … <em>and moves on to worse … </em></p><p>Forcing this pleasure down between, Dean’s, widespread thighs—<em>even as he fights</em>—even as he tries to make Sammy get <strong>off</strong> … Dean’s body <strong><em>reacts</em></strong> to Sammy—because it <strong><em>is</em></strong>, Sammy—and to his eternal shame, he <strong>cums</strong> for Sammy.</p><p>Cums until his balls churn and flesh <strong>gives</strong> out. And he <strong>wants</strong> to <strong>die</strong>—wants to stop existing, because Sammy fucking <strong><em>hates</em></strong> him.</p><p>No … this is something <strong>more</strong> than hate … this is <em>contempt</em>—<strong><em>detest</em></strong>—this is <strong><em>unbearable</em></strong>.</p><p>‘Cause, just as he does it—right as he <strong>cums</strong>, despite all of these sick thoughts that now won’t <em>leave</em> his headspace, that are swirling around like an open <em>dybbuk box</em> in his psyche … Sammy, drills home that Dad gets him <strong>off</strong> like this.</p><p>Spread-wide, part projected <em>upright</em> like some sorta whore on display … and spatters a <strong>mess</strong> everywhere …like a <em>wanton, helpless</em> …</p><p>Then ... Sam brings up Dean’s <strong>continued</strong> relations with, Dad.</p><p>Dean can’t deny that he <strong>has</strong> been sleeping with, Dad, in Sam’s absence—<em>because he has</em>—and he won’t lie to Sammy again, after last time.</p><p><strong><em>Never</em></strong>, again.</p><p>And Sammy uses this fresh, perverse, <strong>knowledge</strong> to make, Dean, hurt more than he is, already—<em>and it works.</em></p><p>And does it <strong><em>ever</em></strong> make him <em>hurt …</em></p><p>Even after <strong><em>all</em></strong> this time, Sammy, is the only thing that can make him <strong><em>feel</em></strong>—and Dean never <strong>once</strong> thought of that as anything shy of a <strong><em>blessing</em></strong>, but suddenly it’s a curse—<em>Dean <strong>feels</strong> everything. </em></p><p>Everything from <em>pleasure</em>, to <strong>agonizing</strong> <em>emotional</em> pain.</p><p>Dean is <strong>unconsciously</strong> trying to fight this—<em>now</em>—not just Sam, but everything that Sammy is <strong>dragging</strong> back up. Everything that has been said … <em>been done …</em> and everything that Dean is—Dean is <strong>currently</strong> fighting against.</p><p>Apologizing with wordy-babbles, while still seeing dark-flashes of all the times, Dad, has fucking broke him like this—<em>or tried to</em>—and all the times that Dean used nights with Sammy to push all these bad things away.</p><p>Dean just <strong><em>needed</em></strong> his <strong>anchor</strong>, tonight.</p><p>Just for <strong><em>one</em></strong> night—and he just wanted to set things right … that is <strong>all</strong>, Dean, has wanted to do since Sammy left him.</p><p>But … Sammy was right to leave, Dean, and Dean <strong>knows</strong> that, now. All the fight goes outta, Dean, when Sammy lines up his still distinctly <em>smaller</em>, arousal—<em>and jams tight-up inside of, Dean.</em></p><p>The man in the alley was rather on the <em>‘large’</em> side when it came to his cock, and Dean is stretched—<strong><em>hurting</em></strong>—down there, but Sammy just thinks it is ‘cause of <strong>Dad</strong>.</p><p>That, <em>Dad</em>, stretched him out.</p><p>And, Dean’s arms fall limply to his sides as his mind tortures him with a flash of Jake, launching cash down at him from above and saying: <em>‘Learn to do better, Boy. You’re a <strong>looker</strong>, but not a very talented fuck. Ain’t even worth the cash.’</em></p><p>Sammy’s words take, Dean, <strong><em>right</em></strong> back there.</p><p>‘Cause, this is Sammy’s <strong>birthday</strong> … and the one thing, Dean, hoped to give—was a little <strong>pleasure</strong> to, Sammy. Even … Even if it <strong><em>completely</em></strong> stripped him down to <strong><em>parts</em></strong> to do it, but …</p><p>Sammy isn’t even gaining much <strong>pleasure</strong> … ‘cause Dean is all stretched-out and <em>used-up …</em></p><p>It is implied in Sammy’s words … and then said out loud <strong>minutes</strong> later …</p><p>Dean has given up the fight—<em>given into the pain</em>—and just lets, Sammy, <strong>berate</strong> him.</p><p>And for the first time, since Sammy left him, Dean, is feeling <em>all</em> of this, same as if it is <strong>happening</strong> all over again.</p><p>Every night spent under, Dad, every time he has picked up a <em>chick</em> with charisma and lies … worn the leather jacket, that Sammy discarded somewhere on the carpet a few feet away, and thought he might actually be <em>‘cool’</em> while wearing it. Thought he might be a little bit more <strong>worthy</strong> of carrying Dad’s name—<em>the ‘Winchester,’ name</em>—but Sammy is <em>right</em>.</p><p>About, <strong>everything</strong>.</p><p>Dean was born this <strong>broken</strong>, <em>fractured</em> thing … this <em>freak …</em></p><p>And he doesn’t deserve to be <strong>here</strong>—<em>anywhere</em>—<strong>ever</strong> …</p><p>Dean finally <em>feels it all</em>—and realizes just how <em>selfish</em> that he has been, from the start.</p><p>Using this stupid, fleshy <em>meatsuit</em> to manipulate, Dad—to manipulate, Sammy … to ruin and twist-up his little <em>brother</em>, his responsibility to Sammy … until Sammy became <strong>fully</strong> dependent on him for love and touch and pleasure … and <em>now <strong>this</strong> …</em></p><p>
  <em>Tonight.</em>
</p><p>Showing up here like he has some sorta <em>claim</em> over Sammy’s damn heart, still!</p><p>The highness, and the drunkenness <em>isn’t</em> to stomach being with, Sammy, but Dean can’t <strong>say</strong> it. Doesn’t care to <em>correct</em>, Sam. ‘Cause the rest of it, is pure unadulterated <strong>truth</strong>.</p><p>And Sammy gives him an order—<em>tells him to <strong>break</strong></em>—but there is nothing <em>left</em> inside of him <strong><em>to</em></strong> break, by now.</p><p>Sammy has always surfaced his <strong>worst</strong> conceivable nightmares. Reminded him of what, Dad, did to him after beating him bloody and <em>that</em> was punishment enough … but Sammy wants to see him <em>break?</em></p><p>Wants him to understand that he is <em>now</em> … <em>Sammy’s <strong>bitch</strong>?</em> Same as he is <strong>Dad’s</strong>?</p><p>
  <em>Dean knows.</em>
</p><p>This is all, Dean, has ever—<em>will ever</em>—be worthy of. Being underneath those <strong>around</strong> him. Being this used-up, <strong><em>manwhore,</em></strong> <em>incapable</em> of being <strong>loved</strong>. Sammy was his <strong>last</strong> hope for being loved, again … ‘cause one thing, Dean, has <em>always</em> known—deep, deep, down—is that, Dad, can <strong>never</strong> love him.</p><p>His only hope for <strong>love</strong> … for anything <em>good</em> and right in this world … is <strong>Sammy</strong> … and Sammy wants him to suffer—<em>wants his heart to die … </em></p><p>Dean swallows through this implosion of feelings and can only manage to say, <em>“I know, Sammy. You think I don’t know?”</em></p><p>‘Cause he <strong>does</strong> know.</p><p>Dean knows that Sammy <em>is</em> this way, <strong><em>because</em></strong> of him. ‘Cause of all the <em>shit</em>, Dean, has said and done—<em>all the lies</em>—<em>all the manipulations</em>—just, <strong><em>everything</em></strong>.</p><p>This is <strong>all</strong> on him.</p><p>And Sammy has a right to take what he wants—<em>what he can</em>—from this stupid, ravaged, shell of a body.</p><p>That is why, Dean, stopped fighting this. ‘Cause he <strong>owes</strong>, Sammy, more than he can <em>ever</em> hope to give him. Owes him for the countless times that he made Sammy feel like, Dad, makes <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> feel.</p><p>
  <em>Unworthy and tainted.</em>
</p><p>Dean owes, Sammy, a better life—the life he <em>would’ve</em> had, if Dean wasn’t here to <strong>ruin</strong> it all …</p><p>Dean goes deep into his <strong>head</strong> and let’s Sammy have what he <em>needs</em>. Feels the gush of Sammy’s <strong>essence</strong> shoot up inside of him, caking his insides that are still filled with that other vile man’s essence—<em>and just waits.</em></p><p>Waits until, Sammy’s had his fill and <strong>collapses</strong> at his hip.</p><p>Uses these last moments to <em>touch</em>, Sammy’s soft strands of hair, and weaves his fingertips through with ease. Tears well and leak outta the <em>corners</em> of Dean’s eyes and he listens to Sammy calming down and drifting off to <strong>sleep</strong>.</p><p>Dean lays here for a <em>time</em> … takes in the soft, easeful breathes from Sammy’s lips and <strong>bathes</strong> in this slight, second of familiarity, with Sammy.</p><p>Something, Dean, knows he is <em>tainting</em>, just by being here. Dean knows that he doesn’t even deserve to <strong>feel</strong> the least bit of happiness, but he promises himself that this <strong>is</strong> gonna be the <em>last</em> time.</p><p>Sammy isn’t gonna be <strong>tainted</strong> or twisted-up by, Dean, <em>ever again.</em></p><p>“I am so, <strong>sorry</strong>, Baby Boy. You will never know just <em>how</em> sorry …” Dean soothes, kissing the top of Sammy’s thick head of hair, wishing that things were <em>different</em>.</p><p>That he didn’t have to completely <strong>destroy</strong> and ruin himself—<em>make himself untouchable</em>—just to raise Sammy up in this <em>world</em>.</p><p>In a better world, Dean, might have been <em>normal</em>. Might have been <strong>worthy</strong> of, Sammy. But, not in <em>this</em> one.</p><p><strong><em>Never</em></strong> in this one …</p><p>Dean just <em>tricked</em> himself, <em>back then, </em>into <strong>believing</strong> that he was.</p><p>Dean tests his arms and legs—<em>they move, rigidly</em>—and stands on his wobbly, shaking legs. Straining and <strong>wincing</strong> from the frequent blasts of pain, and sudden gnarls his various muscles twist into in reflex underneath his skin, Dean, gathers up his <em>clothes</em> from where they’ve been strewn about the carpet.</p><p>With <strong>great</strong> difficulty, Dean, redresses himself.</p><p>Covering up his skin, quickly as he can. Wanting to hide his tainted—<em>warped</em>—body from any eyes that <strong>might</strong> see it.</p><p>Dean, peels the covers off of Sammy, next, and with shaking fingers, guides each of Sammy’s long legs into his boxers. Dressing him, same as Dean did when Sammy was a <em>toddler</em>.</p><p>The memories swirl, <em>incandescently</em> in his head, twirling in and amongst all the <em>bad</em>, <strong>hurtful</strong> memories, Sammy, stirred back up in him, tonight.</p><p>Dean hesitates, once he’s finished with dressing, Sammy. Hoping against <em>hope</em> that Sammy will <strong>forget</strong> what they did tonight—what, Dean, forced him to do, by showing <strong><em>up</em></strong> here.</p><p>Dean reaches up his hand to stroke along the curve of Sammy’s jawline and whispers, “Happy Birthday, Sammy. I wish I … I coulda’ given you <strong>better</strong> … that I … that I coulda’ been a <em>better</em> big brother … one you <strong>deserved</strong>.” A couple tears roll off of Dean’s cheeks and land on Sammy’s pillow.</p><p>Dean wipes his <em>tears</em> and snot away, settling down at Sammy’s bedside. Needing to <strong>rest</strong> his aching, bruised thighs for a minute—<em>just a minute</em>—while he says what he needs to say.</p><p>“I should <em>never</em> have c-come but I … I thought I <strong>could</strong> … I c-could give you <strong><em>this</em></strong> present … e-even if it—" Dean’s voice cuts out and he has to fight to keep talking through these tears, “Even though I-I’m not … I-I’m not <strong><em>whole</em></strong> a-anymore, an’ ain’t been for a <strong>while</strong> …”</p><p>Dean shudders through his tears as he thinks about all the times others have used and <em>abused</em> this body of his. Of course, Sammy, would see Dean offering up his body as a <strong>meaningless</strong> gesture. Worth nothing at all.</p><p>Dean has nothing <em>else</em> to give.</p><p>
  <em>Not anymore.</em>
</p><p>Nothing, at least, that he <em>believed</em> Sammy might value—or even want. The <strong>only</strong> thing, Dean, knew Sammy wanted <em>(at least that, Sammy, <strong>did</strong> used to want)</em> was Dean’s body.</p><p>Sammy used to kiss his bruises and permanent scars. Used to see beauty where, Dean, can <em>still</em> only view ugly taints all over his skin. Now, even <em>Sammy</em>, doesn’t see anything worth loving in, Dean—so <strong><em>nothing</em></strong> could have been the <em>perfect</em> birthday gift.</p><p>Nothing of Dean’s is worth <strong>any</strong> value. Not even his heart, that Sammy <strong><em>still</em></strong> possesses.</p><p>“You don’t gotta, forgive me. I ain’t, <em>worth,</em> your forgiveness … I j-just pray you find <em>someone …</em> a-anyone that’ll make you <strong>smile</strong> … that’ll take <strong>away</strong> this pain I’ve l-left you with. A-All this <em>damage …” </em></p><p>Dean strains to swallow through his <strong>onset</strong> of tears. This is the most pain, Dean, has <em>ever</em> felt. The most heartache—<em>the most emptiness.</em></p><p>It is like this pit is just waiting to <strong>swallow</strong> him up and there ain’t nothing to be <strong>done</strong> about it.</p><p>Not a Goddamn thing that <em>can</em> be.</p><p>“Even if it’s a <strong>dude</strong> … I wouldn’ be <em>upset</em> with ya, Sammy … I’m the one tha’ started you <strong>down</strong> this path … needin’ a man to <em>satisfy</em> you …” Dean wipes at a couple more tears and sniffles.</p><p>After a moment of just watching, Sammy, sleep, Dean, leans down to <strong>press</strong> the softest of kisses to Sammy’s crown.</p><p><em>“Goodbye, Kiddo,” </em>Dean whispers without his usual finesse in his vocal tone. His tone is vacant and tired.</p><p>Dean is just so damn, <em>tired</em>.</p><p>Rising to his feet, Dean, releases Sammy’s hand, laying it carefully on the sheets. His <em>all-too-battered</em> body fights back, as he forces his bones to walk and they make little crackling noises in <strong>disagreement</strong>.</p><p> Dean glances back only once, to take in the sleeping mound of his brother, safe and sound, on his <strong>mattress</strong>.</p><p>The drive back to his motel, is quiet—<em>and feels endless.</em></p><p>Dad’s truck is parked in its usual spot and Dean stares at it listlessly.</p><p>Now that he’s alone, these resurfaced memories, keep playing over and over on repeat, in Dean’s mind.</p><p>Did, Dad, <strong>really</strong> beat, then <em>rape</em> him?</p><p>The black fuzziness between passing out in Baby’s backseat and waking up in the hospital is <em>all-consuming.</em></p><p>And, Dean, can’t remember <strong>anything</strong> short of the pain and the fuss his body made, from being <em>put</em> in that position, by <strong>Dad</strong> and his <em>fury</em>.</p><p>The disgust and the hatred for his own body replays over and over, again and again, as he thinks back on it <strong>all</strong>.</p><p>Dean rubs his hand along, Baby’s dashboard, with these defeated tears in his eyes as he thinks about losing, Sammy. Losing all <em>hope</em> of ever being <strong>with</strong> Sammy again …</p><p>But most of all, Dean thinks about the <strong>hurt</strong> that comes with knowing that Sammy no longer sees anything <em>redeemable</em> in him. No longer even <strong>likes</strong> him, let alone, <em>loves him.</em></p><p>Just hates <strong>everything</strong> that Dean is.</p><p>Dean should have always known it would come to this.</p><p>Come down to, Sammy, figuring out what <em>Dean</em> had tried to tell Sammy for a long, <strong>damn</strong> time.</p><p>That he isn’t worth a <strong><em>damn</em></strong> thing—Not a goddamn <strong>scrap</strong> of affection—<em>of love.</em></p><p>Dean can only feel humiliation and shame—<em>so much shame</em>—right now. Because that’s what he is made up of, <strong>now</strong>.</p><p>Sammy made him <em>feel</em> this—<em>Sammy was—<strong>is</strong></em>—the only one <strong>capable</strong> of making him feel this.</p><p>And now that this pain is laid-out bare and naked and <em>thrashing</em> through the various corners of Dean’s <strong>consciousness</strong>—Dean has no way of <em>shutting</em> it back up.</p><p>Of being <strong><em>helped</em></strong>.</p><p>And by locking up these vile thoughts about what Dad is <em>ultimately</em> capable of, Dean, was able to find at least a <strong>little</strong> bit of willpower to keep on fighting—<em>to cling to Dad as the only solid thing left in Dean’s orbit</em>—but Sammy even took <strong>that</strong> from him.</p><p>Which is no less than Dean <em>knows</em> he deserves.</p><p>Dean stays in Baby for a time, seeing the pie he purchased earlier, he starts to eat it. Trying to fill this newfound void—letting his tears fall as he experiences this pit in his stomach that’s <em>rising</em>.</p><p>When the apple pie is <strong>fully</strong> consumed—Dean, knows he has gotta go and <em>face</em> this.</p><p><strong> <em>Head-on</em> </strong> <em>.</em></p><p>There is no point <em>hiding</em> anymore. No point in even <strong>trying</strong> to.</p><p>With a sigh, Dean, steps outta, Baby, and gives her door a hard pat before he heads into their motel room.</p><p>Dad is settled on the beat-up couch. Beer in hand, flicking idly through channels.</p><p>A couple more flashes come at him—Dad with his fists landing <em>square</em> on Dean’s side, chest, shoulder …</p><p>
  <em>So many traumatic flashes ….</em>
</p><p>Dean closes the door behind him and approaches the couch, stopping once he is right at Dad’s side.</p><p>“You watch after, Sammy, tonight, Boy?” Dad asks in his gruff tone, not tearing his eyes from the tv to even notice that Dean has <em>tears</em> in his eyes.</p><p>Taking a few breaths, Dean, pushes to get this out—deciding nothing really <strong>matters</strong>, now, anyway.</p><p>But, Dean, is tired of Dad pretending—<em>getting to live in this freaking denial-bubble.</em></p><p>“I wanna know the <strong>truth</strong>, Dad. I want you to tell <strong><em>me</em></strong> the truth—you owe me <strong>that</strong> much,” Dean starts, with his hands at his sides balled into tight fists.</p><p>Dad does tear his eyes from the television, now, his eyebrow up in an arc.</p><p>“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout, <em>Boy?</em> What <strong>truth</strong>?” After a moment of staring, Dad, seems to realize the beaten-up state that Dean is currently in. The blood and scars—forming bruises <strong>everywhere</strong>. “An’ what the hell <em>happened</em> t’you?”</p><p>Dean might have been intimidated in the past—but he just <strong>can’t</strong> be bothered, anymore.</p><p>“It’s not <strong>important</strong> …” Dean says dismissively about his current state of appearance, “I wanna know what you did <strong><em>that</em></strong> night … the night you broke my <em>bones</em> and put me in the <strong>hospital</strong>!”</p><p>Dad’s face goes pale—<em>almost pasty-white</em>—and his hand visibly tightens around his beer bottle.</p><p>“I dunno what you’re goin’ on ‘bout, Dean. Ya know what <em>happened</em>, an’ I <strong>apologized</strong> for it.” Dad is trying to be dismissive about this—<em>but Dean isn’t gonna let him.</em></p><p><strong> <em>Not this time</em> </strong> <em>.</em></p><p>Dad is gonna admit to this—<em>just once</em>—and then this can all be <strong>over</strong>.</p><p>“No. I <em>passed</em> out … an’ when I woke up, I know what I <strong>felt</strong> … the <em>pain</em> I was in … but <em>especially</em> the pain in my ass … it was <em>excruciating …”</em></p><p>Dad is vibrating with <strong>emotion</strong>. Dean can see it with his own two eyes—and it tells him what he has always known.</p><p>“Breakin’ my whole goddamn <em>body</em> wasn’t enough for you, <strong>was</strong> it, Dad? You really turned me over an’ <strong><em>raped</em></strong> me, after <em>… didn’t you?!”</em></p><p>Dad’s eyes go dark—<em>darker than Dean has ever seen them</em>—and he rises from his chair, throwing his beer bottle at the wall, where it smashes into pieces.</p><p>“What is the meanin’ of bringin’ this up, <em>now</em>, Boy?! We’re past it <strong>all</strong>, <em>ain’t we?</em> I give you what ya <em>want,</em> now! Give you a warm body in your damn <strong>bed</strong>, where <em>Sammy</em> used to be?!” Dad roars, “What more d’you <em>want?!”</em></p><p>Dean’s stomach roils with all that pie he just ate and his heart patters with so much <strong>anxiety</strong>, that he can’t right his thoughts. Dean wants to be <em>done</em> with this—<em>with everything.</em></p><p>Just when, Dean, thinks he cannot fall <em>any</em> further—the <strong><em>universe</em></strong> goes and proves him wrong.</p><p>“I deserve to know <em>what</em> you did! An’ <strong><em>why</em></strong><em>!</em> What did I <em>ever</em> do that was <strong>so</strong> bad?! Why d’you hate me <strong><em>so</em></strong> much, Dad?! <strong><em>Why</em></strong><em>?</em> Just cause’a <strong>Mom</strong>?! Just cause I ain’t <em>perfect?!</em> What about me could make you <strong>hate</strong> me so damn <em>much</em> that you’d wanna hurt me like <em>that?!</em> All I ever wanted outta you was the love you <strong>used</strong> to give me! Before, Mom, <em>died …</em> when you’d hold me an’ tuck me into bed—and <strong>kiss</strong> me!”</p><p>These damned tears won’t stop <strong>falling</strong> and Dean doesn’t have the mind to stop them anymore, nothing he does can make anyone on this planet <strong>love</strong> him—<em>or respect him</em>—tonight has proven that irrevocably.</p><p>So, what does it matter if, Dad, sees him <em>cry?</em></p><p>“You weren’t passed out, Boy! You were <strong>awake</strong>! Barely—but <strong>awake</strong>!” Dad yells back, “You <em>pissed</em> in the car, made a Goddamn <strong>mess</strong> like an infant! Thought it might get you outta a punishment like it did the <em>last</em> time, I reckon! But you <strong><em>had</em></strong> disobeyed me so I kept up punishin’ you for it! An’ I took it, <em>too</em>, far, but I’ve <strong>apologized</strong> to ya, enough for it. I don’t see the point in bringin’ it up, <em>again!”</em></p><p>“You beat me half-ta <strong><em>death</em></strong>, Dad! You get that you almost <strong>killed</strong> me, <strong><em>before</em></strong> I pissed, <em>right?!”</em></p><p>Dad doesn’t respond, verbally, just narrows his eyes.</p><p>This whole conversation is making, Dean, wanna scratch his skin off from the <strong>agony</strong> he feels, right now—and what has been black since <strong><em>that</em></strong> night is starting to flow and ebb back into his mind like <em>acid rain.</em> Dean remembers the feel of the <strong>upholstered</strong> leather—the warm wetness from his <em>accident</em>. Remembers, Dad, on <strong>top</strong> of him … the tear <em>inside</em> of him; the pain—<em>so horrific</em>—that his mind <strong>blacked</strong> it out …</p><p>And something <strong>occurs</strong> to, Dean.</p><p>“So, this—<em>all of this, since</em>—has been your <strong>apology</strong>, hasn’t it?! Takin’ me <em>slowly</em> … givin’ me these <strong><em>kisses</em></strong>, an’ lettin’ me <em>sleep</em> in your bed?! This is your fucked-up way of sayin’ you’re <strong><em>sorry</em></strong> for almost killin’ <strong>me</strong>, that night?!”</p><p>Something <strong>changes</strong> in Dad’s eyes as he draws in closer until he is standing <strong>inches</strong> from Dean.</p><p>"You always play this <strong><em>innocent</em></strong> card! Always pretend like you don’t <em>know</em> what you’re doin, but you came outta your Mom’s <strong>womb</strong> as this <em>wrong</em>, fucked-up little <strong>shit</strong>. I just couldn’ <strong>see</strong> it, till I lost <em>her!</em> You twisted up your <em>brother’s</em> mind! Twisted me all up with your … your <strong><em>salacious</em></strong> ways! There’s this <strong>darkness</strong> in you, this <em>wrongness!</em> An’ I tried to <strong>cure</strong> you of it! I’ve <em>been</em> tryin’ but nothin’ <strong><em>ever</em></strong> seems to work! I put you in your <em>place</em>, that night, Boy! Put you where you <strong><em>belonged</em></strong>—an’ that’s under a <em>real,</em> Man. I ain’t a, Faggot, like <strong><em>you</em></strong> are! I think of <em>Mary</em> <strong>just</strong> to get it up for you. But I keep tryin’ to fuck you <strong><em>straight</em></strong>, Boy! But there ain’t nothin’ <em>straight</em> about you, is there? You’re just a <strong><em>poor</em></strong> imitation of Mary. A poor imitation of a <strong>man</strong>! An’ despite <em>all</em> this shit that I <strong><em>know</em></strong>, you’re, <strong>still</strong>, all I got, so yeah, Dean! This—<em>all of this</em>—is my <strong>apology</strong> to you!”</p><p>Dean thinks that his head might just <em>explode</em>. That this stupid, pathetic-skinned <strong>body</strong> of his—might just <em>crack</em> inwards, from all this inconceivable <strong>pressure</strong>.</p><p>And maybe that’s not such a <strong><em>bad</em></strong> thing.</p><p>Dad is <strong>right</strong>.</p><p>Dean has no reason to be <em>angry</em> at, Dad, for trying <em>(in his own fucked to bits way) </em>to put him on the <strong>proper</strong> track. Dean has never known <em>what</em> the proper track even is, ‘cause of <strong>Sammy</strong>.</p><p>‘Cause all of his <em>love</em> has been put on Sammy, ‘cause Dad wouldn’t <strong>accept</strong> it—only accepts it <strong><em>now</em></strong> cause he feels he <strong>has</strong> to.</p><p>And Dean thinks back on what Sammy said to him, tonight. How he showed up outta <em>nowhere</em> just to <strong>ruin</strong> Sammy’s life, <strong><em>again</em></strong>.</p><p>Same as he has <em>repeatedly</em> ruined his <strong>Dad’s</strong> life. Ruined all the <em>lives</em> around him.</p><p>Even as a hunter, Dean, doesn’t think he could <strong><em>ever</em></strong> make up for all the <em>bad</em> he has brought to the <strong>people</strong> around him.</p><p>To, Dad—<em>to, Sammy</em>—to everyone he <strong>touches</strong>.</p><p>Dean has come to the realization that he <strong><em>is</em></strong> the <em>acid rain</em>—he is the <strong>poison</strong> that annihilates not only the <em>weeds</em> in his life—but the <strong>flowers</strong> and the <em>beautiful</em> trees—and the <strong><em>animals</em></strong> …</p><p>He is <em>cracked</em>—and there is no <strong>fixing</strong> this.</p><p>Dean squeezes his eyes with his thumb and index, and finally lowers his hand, to look Dad in the eyes with his bloodshot ones.</p><p>“Why didn’t you let me <em>die</em>, Dad? Why’d you have to go an’ <strong>save</strong> me? You shouldn’ have <strong><em>saved</em></strong> me.”</p><p>All of this aggression in Dad’s eyes <strong>vanishes</strong> immediately, and his brow furrows, as though <em>confused</em>—<strong>conflicted</strong>.</p><p>“What’re you talkin,’ ‘bout, Dean? I didn’t want you to <strong><em>die</em></strong>—I’ve never wanted you <em>dead,”</em> Dad says it like it is just <em>commonsense</em>. But to, Dean, it has <strong>never</strong> been that way.</p><p>Never just been something he <em>knows</em>—that Dad wants to keep him <strong>alive</strong>.</p><p>“Maybe it is what<strong><em> I</em></strong> wanted … did you ever think of <em>that?”</em></p><p>Dean storms away, grips one of the chairs from the dining room table and marches into the bathroom. Slamming and locking the door, he tips the chairback underneath the doorknob, effectively reinforcing and barricading himself inside.</p><p>He left, Dad, standing there with this <strong><em>bewildered</em></strong> expression on his face. Probably unable to comprehend how this conversation went from <strong>bad</strong> to <em>worse</em>—<em>on a dime</em>—but after all that’s gone on.</p><p>Everything that has been <strong>said</strong>—Dean just can’t <em>do</em> this <strong>anymore</strong>.</p><p>There is, too, much <strong>weight</strong>—too much <em>pressure</em> closing in on him—and Sammy made his stance <strong><em>very</em></strong> clear, tonight.</p><p>Sammy wishes Dean would just <strong>disappear</strong>—<em>go away and never come back</em>—so that is what Dean <strong><em>intends</em></strong> to make happen.</p><p>“Boy! Come <em>outta</em> there! What’re you <strong>doin</strong>?” Dad yells on the other side of the door. Pounding on it with a closed fist, a couple times.</p><p>“I’m <em>finishin’</em> this, Dad. I’m makin’ it be <strong>over</strong>. For <em>you …</em> especially for, <strong>Sammy</strong>,” Dean yells back through the wood.</p><p>“Dean! What the <strong>fuck</strong> are you talkin’ ‘bout? What’s Sammy gotta do with <em>this?!</em> Open this <strong>door</strong>, Goddamn it, Dean!” Dad pounds a couple more times, but Dean <em>ignores</em> him.</p><p>Dean draws the blade, Dad, bought him when he was <strong>six</strong>, outta Dad’s leather jacket that he has on. Discards the jacket into a heap on the tile, unbuttons and <em>pushes</em> his flannel sleeves up his arms—and slices deep upwards on both of his wrists and forearms.</p><p>Blood oozes out and <strong>dribbles</strong> down onto the tile and Dean makes loud grunts as he endures this burning—<strong><em>searing</em></strong>—pain, that now runs up the entirety of both arms.</p><p>“Sammy doesn’t <em>love</em> me—and neither do <strong>you</strong>, Dad! I just ruin <em>both</em> of your lives by <strong>being</strong> here—so I am setting you <strong>free</strong>!<em> Both of you!” </em>Dean yells back.</p><p>Dad is actively throwing himself against the door, now. Rattling the chair against the doorknob. Crash after crash <em>trying</em> to break through.</p><p>Dean lowers himself to the cold tile in the corner nearest the window, shuts his eyes—<em>and drowns everything out, until woozily</em>—he drops into <strong>unconsciousness</strong>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>xxv. patches of broken ache.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Blood. Drips. Skin. Bones.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beeps and bandages.</em>
</p><p>The smell of <strong>antiseptic</strong> hits, Dean, like a ton of bricks. There is this urgent <strong>pain</strong> that shoots through him—<em>everywhere.</em></p><p>It is his muscles, Dean, realizes … they don’t wanna <strong>move</strong>.</p><p>There is a rough hand, holding <em>one</em> of his, and Dean tries to surmise who it is—<em>by feel alone</em>—because his eyes don’t wanna <strong>open</strong> for him.</p><p>Is, <strong><em>this,</em></strong> what death <strong>feels</strong> like?</p><p>Dean expected to <em>die</em>, but he thought the pain and suffering would go with it, but it seems to only have <strong>mounted</strong>, instead.</p><p>This rough, <em>coarse</em> hand, makes Dean feel safe—<em>and secure</em>—but the scent is off; this isn’t <strong><em>Dad’s</em></strong> hand.</p><p>Dean <em>sniffs</em> a couple times.</p><p>Traces of sweat, alcohol, <em>car grease</em>—<strong><em>Bobby.</em></strong></p><p>“B-Bobby … s’that <em>you?”</em> Dean hears his voice crack and coughs, as his dry lips and mouth actively <strong>rebel</strong> against formulating the words.</p><p>Last, Dean, checked, Bobby, wasn’t <em>dead …</em></p><p>“Yeah, it’s <strong>me</strong>,” Bobby confirms with his usual gruff-sounding tone.</p><p>“But … You’re not … <em>dead …”</em> Dean mentions, dumbly, with this shaky, cracked-like, tone.</p><p>Bobby makes a grunt, “An’ <em>neither</em> are you. I dunno what the <em>hell</em> you were thinkin,’ Boy, but that was a right <strong><em>stupid</em></strong> thing you did to yerself.”</p><p>Dean releases a sigh and his lungs <em>wheeze</em> as he readjusts to being <strong><em>alive.</em></strong></p><p>Goddamn it! If he isn’t <strong>dead</strong>, that means that Dad did it, <em>again … <strong>saved him</strong> … again!</em></p><p>“I didn’t wanna <em>be</em> saved, Bobby … Why am I <strong>here</strong>? An’ why’re <em>you</em> here?”</p><p>Dean stares around his hospital room. Looking for any sign of, <em>Dad</em>, anywhere.</p><p>There’s no, <em>Dad</em>, just Bobby.</p><p>Lately, Dad and Dean have been working with Bobby a whole lot more. He helps them out when they need an extra hand, and Dean has gotten outta the habit of calling him <em>‘Uncle Bobby,’</em> since he isn’t <strong>really</strong> his uncle, more a friend of the family—and just saying ‘Bobby’ saves time in a <strong>bind</strong>, anyway.</p><p>But that still doesn’t explain why Bobby is <em>here</em> and not, <strong>Dad</strong>.</p><p>Bobby lets go of his hand and shakes his head, somberly.</p><p>“You surely don’t mean <em>that</em>, Dean. Nothin’ is ever <strong><em>that</em></strong> bad, now. I know you an’ Sammy have been outta contact, but I’ve kept up with him an’ he’s doin’ <em>good</em>, Dean. <strong>Real</strong> good, so there ain’t no reason to be so upset ‘bout him not bein’ with ya. He’ll come <em>around</em>, one of these days.”</p><p>Dean winces as he tries <em>not</em> to think about Sammy, and the promise he made on Sammy’s <strong>birthday</strong>. Promised never to bother him, again … <em>unconscious or not …</em> Dean intends to <strong>keep</strong> his promise.</p><p>He never wants to <strong>ruin</strong> Sammy’s life, again …</p><p>That is <em>why</em> … why he is <strong>supposed</strong> to be in the afterlife, right now. Not, <strong><em>here</em></strong>, talking to Bobby …</p><p>Dean fists these scratchy, hospital blankets, and swallows around a thick lump in his throat.</p><p>“You don’t <strong>understand</strong>. No one can <em>understand</em> … an’ I … I don’t <em>get</em> what you’re doin’ here …”</p><p>Bobby sighs, again.</p><p>“John, called me up. Told me he caught a <em>case</em>, an’ what’d happened. So, I <strong>came</strong>. He said you wouldn’t wanna be seein’ him when you woke up, anyhow, so here I am. Now, you gonna tell me why you did this? Sam’s been gone for two years, now, an’ John woulldn’t say. Just kept sayin’ you got in some kinda <em>argument</em>, an’ locked yerself in the bathroom.”</p><p>Dean tightens his fist and turns his cheek away from Bobby. Tears are suddenly <strong>blurring</strong> out his vision and Dean’s chest is becoming awfully <em>damn</em> tight on him.</p><p>Bobby may be something <em>like</em> family, but he isn’t a <em>‘Winchester,’</em> and Dean still feels so completely <strong>humiliated</strong> by everything that has <strong>happened</strong> to put him where he is, now—that it is <strong>difficult</strong> to speak.</p><p>Even simply being in Bobby’s <em>presence</em> is a lot for Dean to handle, right now. There are all these little <em>prickles</em> underneath his skin, acting as pinprick reminders that he ain’t worth a <strong><em>damn</em></strong> thing.</p><p>And the way this paper-thin gown is <em>letting</em> Bobby see <strong>all</strong> of his <em>(self-inflicted)</em> imperfections?</p><p>Dean wants to <strong>sink</strong> into a hole—<em>and stay there.</em></p><p>The more he comes out of this sleep, the more these emotions that brought him <em>to</em> this low point <em>(in the first damn place)</em> are <strong>sweeping</strong> back in, to <strong>surface</strong>.</p><p>Dean can still hear the pound of that <em>stranger’s</em> hips—as he ripped away all of Dean’s pride in <strong><em>that</em></strong> alleyway. Can still feel the weight of <em>Sammy</em> crushing him, as Sammy whispered all those <strong>hurtful</strong> things into his ear … all these memories—<em>all these mind-raping flashes</em>—are just too damn much.</p><p>The memory about what, Dad, <strong>did</strong> … that was the <em>straw</em> that broke Dean the rest of the way, <strong><em>past</em></strong> bereavement.</p><p>The memory is <strong>so</strong> bleak—<em>so excruciating</em>—and crippled with this <strong>humiliation</strong> and <em>wrongness</em>—that his psyche<em> (which has endured so much)</em> had locked it away so that he <strong>couldn’t</strong> remember it.</p><p>And, now, it is just <em>here</em> … <strong><em>screaming at him</em></strong>—and Bobby wants to <strong><em>know</em></strong> about it? About all these <em>shameful</em> pieces that, Dean, keeps <strong>locked</strong> away that drove him to not wanna be here, anymore?</p><p>Dad would <strong>kill</strong> Bobby if Dean were to tell Bobby the truth <em>(their private family business)</em> and <strong><em>then</em></strong> where would, Dean, be?</p><p>“I … I c-can’t … d-don’t <strong>make</strong> me!” Dean doesn’t know when this <em>panic</em> started to slip in … doesn’t even remember <strong>getting</strong> this riled up—but he is suddenly <strong>hyperventilating,</strong> seemingly outta nowhere, and Bobby is watching with his mouth half-agape, as Dean descends into one of his worst panics since <strong><em>Sammy</em></strong> left.</p><p><em>“Balls!”</em> Bobby grunts, “Calm <strong>down</strong>, Dean! Yer gonna <em>rip</em> yer stitches, Boy!”</p><p>Dean notices his bandages for the <strong>first</strong> time. Like big, thick, <em>patches</em> of <strong>pain</strong>—patches of <em>reminder</em> that, Dean, <strong>shouldn’t</strong> be here, anymore.</p><p> That Dean is this weak, <em>pathetic</em> piece of shit that couldn’t even <em>kill</em> himself, <em>right …</em></p><p>One of his hands treks up to clutch at his <strong>chest</strong> as he strains to breathe—and the heart monitor he’s hooked-up to, <em>goes crazy. </em>The beeps on the machine wild and sporadic, and these <strong>shaky</strong> pant-like breaths, come out in <strong>wheezes</strong>.</p><p>A slew of nurses’ <em>bustle</em> in and the next thing, Dean, knows, one of them is <strong>sticking</strong> a needle into his IV and his world goes dark, again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bobby doesn’t ask him <strong>why</strong> he did it, again.</p><p>At least, he doesn’t <strong>push</strong> to understand the <em>‘why,’</em> behind it, anyway.</p><p>Though, every single time, Dean, wakes up—<em>Bobby is here and Dad isn’t.</em></p><p>Bobby finally explains to him <em>(the next time Dean opens his eyes)</em> that, Dad, is off on a hunt—halfway across the country, and won’t be comin’ back, for a while.</p><p>Though, Bobby, doesn’t <strong>push</strong>, the concern exudes off of Bobby like little rays of tarnished fog—and Dean can feel Bobby’s concern even through the layers of his <em>hurt</em> that still seeks to consume him.</p><p>The bandages stay on, Dean’s wrists, <em>for weeks,</em> while the deep penetrative wounds Dean made on himself, heal. The doctor keeps him for observation—<em>and forced blood transfusions</em>—and when, Dean, tries to fuck-up his stitches <em>(on purpose)</em> the doctor has him <strong>cuffed</strong> to his bedrails for his own <em>‘safety.’</em></p><p>The more Bobby <strong>stays</strong>, the more <strong>restless</strong>, Dean, can see him becoming. But the <em>restlessness</em> isn’t from not <strong>wanting</strong> to be here, but from seeing into Dean’s <em>suffering</em> soul.</p><p>Dean imagines himself as this <em>ugly</em>, gaping <strong>wound</strong>—that whenever Bobby so much as looks too deep—<em>too long</em>—at, that he can see, Dean, for what he is.</p><p>
  <em>This stain on everyone close to him.</em>
</p><p>Dean tries to lash out at Bobby <em>(on more than one occasion)</em> tries to tell him to <em>‘fuck-off,’</em> and tries to <strong>insult</strong> him so that he’ll <em>leave</em>—but Bobby is <strong>stubborn</strong> as a mule, and outright refuses to go. Taking any and all abuse, Dean, has to give with a smile and a nod.</p><p>Bobby settles down with a <em>magazine</em>, or watches the tiny, shit-TV at Dean’s bedside—<em>while simultaneously</em> <em>keeping a watchful eye on him.</em></p><p>Bobby threatened the doctor, when he suggested moving Dean to a more <strong><em>secure</em></strong> floor <em>(so that Dean couldn’t try anything, again)</em> and Bobby told the man in <em>no</em> uncertain terms that Dean is not gonna be put in some <em>‘crazy-house’</em> not on <strong>his</strong> damn watch! And that if the man even <em>‘thought about suggestin’ it again,’</em> that he was gonna be in a <strong>world</strong> of hurt! –<em>and the doctor backed-off.</em></p><p><em>Real quick</em>.</p><p>Dean winds up being in the hospital for a full month and after spending all that time mulling over the pain—<em>the trauma</em>—of what he’d gone through on Sammy’s birthday, <em>(all of it)</em> Dean, worked-out that he doesn’t want to be <strong>near</strong>, Dad, right now.</p><p>Doesn’t <strong>think</strong> he can ever <em>take</em> to Dad’s bed, again.</p><p>Or lay under <strong><em>any</em></strong> man, for <strong>that</strong> matter—even for <em>self-punishment.</em></p><p>Dean pinches the skin on the side of his wrist, whenever he so much as <strong>pictures</strong> a man on top of him.</p><p>After, Dean, damn-near goes into a panic attack when Dad called-up <em>(outta the blue)</em> and said he was gonna swing by to pick Dean up from the <strong>hospital</strong>—Bobby stepped in and offered to let, Dean, stay at his place, for a time.</p><p>
  <em>‘The boy isn’t in the right mindset to be huntin’ right, now, John! He needs time to heal his head, not just his body!’</em>
</p><p>Dean can still hear Bobby arguing with, Dad, on the other end of the phone, while Dean clutched at his chest and tried to breathe through his sudden onset of panic.</p><p>
  <em>(Dean had wanted to tell Bobby that his panic had nothing to do with hunting, but hadn’t been able to breathe.)</em>
</p><p>So, that’s how, Dean, ends up at Bobby’s house.</p><p>Dean doesn’t <strong>want</strong> to be here <em>(and by here he means alive)—not at all</em>—but Bobby brought, Dean, <em>home</em> with him, determined as <strong>anything</strong> to get, Dean, outta all this—and Dean knows that he doesn’t deserve Bobby’s kindness, but Bobby won’t be <strong>talked</strong> outta helping him.</p><p>Dean has stayed quiet <em>(about everything that led him to that hospital bed)</em> through the past month that he’s been here at Bobby’s—but the August heat in Bobby’s junkyard does help to keep his mind off of, Sammy, Dad, and all the mistakes he’s made <em>through</em> his life.</p><p>Fixing up old cars is something, Dean, <strong><em>can</em></strong> do—<em>and it’s useful</em>—helpful to Bobby, at the very <strong>least</strong>.</p><p>And Dean feels like he <strong><em>owes</em></strong> Bobby … for <em>putting</em> up with him in the first damn place—and taking him in so that he can have some much-needed time away from, Dad.</p><p>Even though those <em>‘reminder bandages’</em> are gone, the scars will stay these gouged-in, deep-set, strips down either of Dean’s forearms. <em>Wrist to midway-up</em>, on both.</p><p>The scars are shameful, and Dean knows it, ‘cause every single person that sees them, whenever Dean heads into town in Baby<em> (Bobby held onto her while Dean was in the hospital) </em>people stare at him with these <em>pitying</em> looks, that make him wanna sink into the floor.</p><p>Dean wears constant flannel, now, even though it’s hot as <em>hell</em> outside some days, to keep them hidden.</p><p>Even, Bobby, stares at them sometimes and Dean always avoids eye contact, after he catches, Bobby, staring, ‘cause it means that Bobby might ask him, again, <strong><em>why</em></strong> he did it.</p><p>Something about tonight though … <em>feels different.</em></p><p>Dean is just set about, climbing into bed and Bobby hovers in the doorway. Like he desperately <em>wants</em> to ask, Dean, something—but isn’t certain he <strong>should</strong>.</p><p>Dean lowers himself down onto the edge of this rickety-old <strong>mattress</strong> that he once shared with, <strong>Sammy</strong>, when he stayed here<em> (what feels like a lifetime ago, now)</em>, and says, “What’s the <em>matter</em>, Bobby?”</p><p>The longer that fight with Dad—<em>and his last night with Sammy</em>—is left to fester and ache in his subconscious, the harder it is becoming <strong><em>not</em></strong> to talk about it.</p><p>Not to <strong>tell</strong>, Bobby, when he asks <strong><em>after</em></strong> it.</p><p>Dean just wants to be <strong>free</strong> of this pain—<em>of this regret</em>—and he just wants to <em>not</em> be so damn tired, anymore.</p><p>Why can’t he be <strong>relieved</strong> of this anguish? Why does he <em>always</em> gotta be stuck up in it?</p><p><em>‘‘cause you let, Sammy, down,’</em> his mind reminds him for the umpteenth time, today, alone—and Dean <strong><em>pinches</em></strong> his forearm in order to shove the burden of pain back down.</p><p>“There’s somethin’ more to you not wantin’ to go back with, John, than just a <strong><em>fight</em></strong>, isn’t there, Dean?” Bobby asks, clearly reluctant to do so, ‘cause he surveys, Dean, up and down, as though waiting for Dean to have an outright meltdown.</p><p>And, Dean, might have … if he hadn’t been <em>expecting</em> Bobby to piece this all together on his own—<em>in the first place</em>—but Bobby is <strong>smart</strong>. Dean has <strong><em>always</em></strong> known that keeping secrets from Bobby is almost as impossible as keeping them from Dad—at least it is when you spend as much <strong><em>time</em></strong> with Bobby as Dean has been, lately.</p><p>Sinking his teeth into his <em>bottommost</em> lip, Dean, bows his head, pinching significantly <strong><em>harder</em></strong> at his bone-thin wrist.</p><p>When, Dean, doesn’t answer, Bobby, goes deeper. “And this is about, <strong><em>Sam</em></strong>, too? An’ why you two, ain’t on <strong>speakin’</strong> terms?”</p><p>Dean lifts his head, brokenly, staring into Bobby’s softening eyes.</p><p>“I … I <em>fucked-up,</em> Bobby … an’ I … I <strong>lost</strong>, Sammy. For good, ‘cause of it. But, <em>Dad … </em>Dad, I <strong>hurt</strong>, too,” Dean hesitates, struggling to make Bobby understand why this is his fault … not Dad’s, “I hurt him just by … <em>by existing</em> … so, I <strong>tried</strong> to solve it. Tried to take myself outta the <strong>equation</strong> but … this <em>universe</em> just wants to <strong>punish</strong> me—wants me down <strong>here</strong>, forced to watch everyone that I <strong>love</strong>, suffer,</p><p>‘cause of <em>me …”</em></p><p>Dean lets out this bitter laugh and shakes his head, whisking away these falling tears with the back of his hand.</p><p>“Boy, what the <em>hell’re</em> you talkin’ ‘bout?” Bobby asks, bluntly. “I ain’t <strong>never</strong> seen a boy so broken as Sammy was that time, he was here <em>away</em> from you. That boy <strong>idolizes</strong> you. So, whatever you <em>did</em>—you think, Sam, would be <strong>happier</strong> knowin’ that you’re <em>dead</em>, than remedying whatever it is you <em>did</em> to him? An,’ John, <strong>loves</strong> you, Dean. I dunno what you mean by what you just <em>said</em>. Not in the <strong>least</strong>.”</p><p>Dean scoffs and groans. “That’s just <strong>it</strong>, Bobby. Sam wants <em>nothin’</em> to do with me, an’ there ain’t no <strong>fixin’</strong> that, now. An,’ <em>Dad …”</em> Dean trails off, his throat <strong>choking</strong> him up.</p><p>“What did <em>John</em>, do?”</p><p>“It’s <em>me,</em> Bobby … I … I am the <em>one</em> that’s <strong>sick</strong> … that keeps makin’ Dad <em>do</em> these things …” Dean knows he just said, <strong>too</strong>, much—and he can’t take it <em>back</em> now.</p><p>Bobby narrows his eyes and asks, “What <em>‘things,’</em> Dean? What <em>‘things’</em> are you responsible for, that, <em>John</em>, does?”</p><p>Dean is frozen to this spot—<em>frozen to this bed</em>—‘cause Bobby can’t <strong>know</strong> this … can’t know the truly sick and depraved things that go on … that have always gone on—<em>but</em>—at the same time, Dean, is so <strong>tired</strong> of the lies. These <strong>lies</strong> that keep feeding <strong><em>more</em></strong> lies, and lost him <em>Sammy</em> in the first friggin’ place …</p><p>“I can’t <em>tell</em> you, Bobby. You <strong>know</strong>, Dad …”</p><p>Dean can see this solid dark that is spreading over Bobby’s face. He is no longer <strong><em>willing</em></strong> to be patient about this—Dean can tell by the way his whole body has gone, <strong>alarmingly</strong> rigid.</p><p>“Yeah, I know, <strong><em>John</em></strong><em>.</em> But this ain’t about what, <strong>John</strong>, does or doesn’t <em>want</em> you sayin,’ this is about why you don’t want to go <strong>back</strong> to him. Why <em>you</em> were so willin’ to remove yourself from this <em>‘equation,’</em> as you put it!”</p><p>More, tears well-up in Dean’s eyes, threatening to fall—and he tries not to let this mounting panic sweep through him as he makes up his mind, to finally let this <strong><em>burden</em></strong> out. This sick-damn <em>burden</em> that he’s been carrying around forever<em>, by himself.</em></p><p>“I … I look like, <em>Mom …</em> I mean … I <strong>resemble</strong> her … a bit …” Dean swallows down this sick, bubbling in his stomach—afraid he’s gonna throw up.</p><p>The half-a-pie he ate <em>(the other half is still stashed under his bed where Bobby won’t find it)</em> a half-hour, ago, isn’t helping him to keep it all, together, right now, either.</p><p>Bobby keeps his eyes <strong>narrowed</strong>, as if trying to understand what, Dean, is <em>trying</em> to say.</p><p>“It … I … <strong>hurt</strong>, Dad … by lookin’ <em>like Mom.</em> So, I … I let him … I <strong><em>convinced</em></strong> him … to do <strong>things</strong> about it … with <em>me</em>, I <strong>mean</strong> …” Dean sighs and tries to be clearer, “Bobby, I just <strong>can’t</strong> do it anymore … I can’t … I can’t keep <em>hurtin’</em> Dad an’ makin’ him wanna <strong>punish</strong> me for it. I was <strong>never</strong> … I was never, <strong><em>mugged</em></strong>, Bobby …”</p><p>Bobby’s eyes go wide, now, as it appears that he finally gets, <em>precisely,</em> what Dean is trying to tell him.</p><p>Dean lowers his head, chocked to the <strong>hilt</strong> with this shame as he pictures what Dad is gonna do, now, when he finds out that Dean told Bobby <em>all of this.</em></p><p>
  <em>All of these secrets that only they share … that not even, Sammy, knows about … </em>
</p><p>But there is also a deep, <em>bruiting</em> shame that takes hold when, Dean, thinks about Bobby seeing him—<em>as the filth he is</em>—right now, for the <strong>first</strong> time.</p><p>Dean can never hope to be <strong>untainted</strong>—<em>to be clean</em>—ever, again.</p><p>And he’s got <strong>only</strong> himself to blame for it, too.</p><p><em>“That, Son of a Bitch!”</em> Bobby snaps and Dean gapes as Bobby storms from his doorway, straight down the hall.</p><p>Sprinting to his feet, Dean, follows narrowly behind him—heart pounding and head spiraling as he tries to figure out what Bobby is doing!</p><p>“Bobby! Please! You <strong>can’t</strong> tell, Dad, that I’ve gone an’ told you!”</p><p>“The hell I <em>ain’t!”</em> Bobby picks up the phone and punches out Dad’s number in a hurry!</p><p>Dean can only watch with a mixture of <strong>horror</strong> and gut-churning fear, while Bobby tells Dad off in a colorful slew of words and phrases and promises to <em>‘blow his Goddamn head off with a shotgun’ </em>if Dad ever shows his face up, <strong><em>here</em></strong>, again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean is numb for <strong>days</strong> after telling Bobby that small <em>iota</em> of truth. But, Bobby, <strong>immediately</strong> stopped looking at Dean with this conflicted stare—and started, Dean, back <em>hunting</em>, again.</p><p>Something completely <strong>shifts</strong> in Bobby after, Dean, tells him—and Dean can’t put his finger on <strong>what</strong> that something, <strong><em>is</em></strong>, <em>exactly</em>.</p><p>Bobby still has his usual prickly edges and outwardly-tough personality, to boot … but there is also this distinct <strong>understanding</strong>, that Dean never expected outta anyone—<em>least of all, Bobby.</em></p><p>It is almost like, Bobby, has gone through something like it <strong>himself</strong>—or been on the <em>problem-end</em> of ruining the lives of his <strong>family </strong>to know exactly what that’s like—but Bobby has <strong>never</strong> spoken about his family and Dean has never <strong>pushed</strong> to know anything, ‘cause Bobby has always been so private about stuff.</p><p>Sorta like, <em>Dad.</em></p><p>All he knows for sure, is that Bobby’s parents are dead, along with his <strong>wife</strong>—and that Bobby has never had <em>children</em> all his own.</p><p>So, Dean, doesn’t know how Bobby can relate <em>(and doesn’t ask) </em>but Bobby just <strong>does</strong>.</p><p>Bobby makes it known that, Dean, has a purpose on this planet—<em>even if he can’t see it for himself anymore</em>—and it is to kill every damn <strong>monster</strong> that goes bump in the night, and save the poor bastards that don’t know any different—or <em>‘don’t know their ass from their front’</em> as Bobby puts it.</p><p>Hell, Bobby, spends most of that night <em>(after Dean told him)</em> reminding, Dean, precisely <strong>why</strong> it is that they hunt—why there needs to be damn good hunters <em>(like Dean)</em> in this Godforsaken world.</p><p>And for the <em>first</em> time, since Dean slit his wrists—he starts to remember what first kept him going <strong><em>after</em></strong> Sammy left.</p><p>
  <em>Killing things. </em>
</p><p><strong> <em>Hunting</em> </strong> <em> things.</em></p><p>It is what, Dad, <em>trained</em> him for.</p><p>Being this perfect, <strong>damn</strong>, hunter out there, in the world.</p><p>Dean is Dad’s <em>‘good little soldier’</em> and always <strong>will</strong> be—even if he slits his wrists, there is no escaping from what Dad <em>taught</em> and raised him up to be.</p><p>Bobby rides shotgun in, Baby, two days after Dean told him—and damn did it ever feel fucking <strong>good</strong>, to take all this newfound <em>pain</em>—<em>all this frustration and self-hatred</em>—and chop a monster’s head <strong>off</strong> with it.</p><p>All, the adrenaline—<em>all</em> <em>these super-charged emotions</em>—all of it, makes Dean feel a <strong>little</strong> bit better.</p><p>And after another month, spent with Bobby between his junkyard and hunting monsters—Dean knows <em>that (even though Bobby is full-fledged against it) </em>he <em>has</em> to go back to hunting with, Dad.</p><p>That he needs to be <strong>useful</strong>, again—and despite what Dad has <em>done</em> … Dean needs to be <strong>there</strong> for Dad, ‘cause they are <strong><em>still</em></strong> family, and Dean would never <strong>forgive</strong> himself if Dad got killed ‘cause he wasn’t there—‘cause he wouldn’t go back where he belongs.</p><p>“I appreciate <strong>everything</strong> you’ve done for me, Bobby, but I <em>gotta</em> do this,” Dean says, as he packs up the last of his things into his duffle bag and zips it shut.</p><p>Bobby is standing a couple feet away with a twisted-up expression on his face. There is frustration—<em>and more than just a little <strong>anger</strong></em>—written there.</p><p>“Dean, this isn’t like choosing to <em>hunt</em> or choosin’ to sit on your damn <strong>hands</strong> an’ do nothin’! You don’t owe that <strong>bastard</strong> a Goddamn thing, Dean!” Bobby snaps.</p><p>Dean slings his duffle over his left shoulder and eyes Bobby, somberly.</p><p>“I do, <em>though</em>, Bobby. He is <strong>still</strong> my, Dad, and I am the one that fucked <em>him</em> up, okay? No one else did <em>that</em>, but me. And I can’t let him keep <strong>huntin’</strong> things without me,” he tries to explain, but it only seems to be making everything <em>worse</em>.</p><p>“That’s just <em>it</em>, Dean, you didn’ do nothin’! You ain’t responsible for that <strong>bastard</strong> climbin’ on top of you! You didn’t ‘cause any of that, just by <strong>existin’</strong> an’ if you’d just call up, <em>Sam—”</em></p><p>“Tell, Sam, <strong>what</strong>?!” Dean lashes out, Sammy’s name being thrown into this only makes Dean’s blood boil—and stomach stir-up with regrets. But he tries to calm himself, just a bit. “Sam already knows, Bobby. An’ Sam <em>hates</em> me for what, Dad, <strong>does</strong>, alright?! He caught us … that is why Sam is <em>away</em> at college! He left cause of what <strong><em>I</em></strong> did! So, I don’t want you tellin’ Sammy <strong>nothin’</strong> if you talk to him! Alrigh’? I won’t fuck-up that kid’s life any more than I <em>already</em> have!”</p><p>Bobby shoots him this abashed look and seems to stall in his tracks.</p><p>“Sam <strong>caught</strong> you?”</p><p>“Yeah, Bobby—an’ it was <strong>bad</strong>, alright?!”</p><p><em>“Jesus, Dean.</em> How many times have you—How <strong><em>long</em></strong> has this been goin’ on?!”</p><p>Dean avoids eye contact with, Bobby, as this new wave of <strong>shame</strong> crashes in on him.</p><p><em>“A long time,</em> Bobby. But it’s <strong>fine</strong>. I ain’t gonna do it <em>no</em> more—I am only gonna be helpin’ Dad with huntin’ business from here on out. I won’t be <strong>stirrin’</strong> him up, no more.”</p><p>Bobby steps toward him and plants a hand on Dean’s shoulder, firmly—<em>giving it a squeeze.</em></p><p>“Dean … This ain’t <strong>your</strong> fault, Boy. None of this has <em>ever</em> been on you … if you … you <em>were</em> just a damn, kid—<em>hell even if you weren’t</em>—and from the sounds of it, <strong>John</strong> is the one that went an’ fucked <em>you</em> up. Not the other way <em>around.”</em></p><p>Dean swallows around this tightness in his throat and chest. There is just so many emotions inside of him right now—so many rolling around in his head and in his <strong>heart</strong>, that it’s difficult to see <strong>straight</strong>.</p><p>Dean hates that Bobby knows about all this <strong>now</strong>—hates that Bobby can probably <em>see</em> all these cracks and broken-parts in the mirror of Dean’s <strong>life</strong>, but … knowing that Bobby must have something of his own buried in his past that makes him <strong>understand</strong>—<em>is helping.</em></p><p>Even, just a <strong>little</strong> bit.</p><p>Dean isn’t used to sharing <em>this</em> part of himself. Isn’t used to letting <strong>anyone</strong> in—but Bobby is <strong><em>more</em></strong> than family, now, even if Dean makes the decision <em>(here and now)</em> that he isn’t gonna be coming around here, again<em>, for a while.</em></p><p>Bobby doesn’t need to stay caught-up in all this <em>‘Winchester-bullshit,’ </em>all ‘cause, Dean, turned-out to be weak and couldn’t keep his secrets hidden where they <strong>belonged</strong>.</p><p>“Look, Bobby. I climbed into <strong><em>his</em></strong> lap … seduced <em>him</em>—<em>asked him</em>—no, I <strong><em>begged</em></strong> him to give in, Bobby. Dad wouldn’a ever <em>touched</em> me if I hadn’t gone an’ <strong>done</strong> that.”</p><p>There is this flicker of something <strong><em>off</em></strong> in Bobby’s eyes, all of the sudden—and Dean can’t decipher what it is, exactly, but it appears to <strong>hurt</strong>.</p><p>Quite a bit—<em>and really damn deep in Bobby.</em></p><p>“Dean. I can see I ain’t gonna change your mind ‘bout this … an’ yer a <em>grown</em> man, so I can’t stop your leavin’ an’ running back to <strong>him</strong>, but just … understand that this is on <em>him</em>. What <em>he</em> did … it’s <strong><em>all</em></strong> on <strong><em>him</em></strong>, Dean. It don’t friggin’ matter that <em>you</em> climbed in <strong>his</strong> lap. So, stop sayin’ <strong>you</strong> ruined <strong><em>him</em></strong>—<strong>he</strong> hurt <strong><em>you</em></strong>, Boy. There ain’t no other <em>way</em> to see it, than that …”</p><p>This ache hits Dean square in the chest as Bobby spins all of this <strong><em>back</em></strong> on Dad. Something in, Dean, tells him that Bobby is <strong>right</strong>—that Bobby is <em>absolutely</em> right … but a more <strong>potent</strong> part—the part that Dad trained to be a <em>‘good freakin’ soldier,’</em> and keeps Dad on a pedestal—<em>is always gonna win out.</em></p><p>Deep, deep, in his belly, Dean, <strong>knows</strong> that his body rejected going back to Dad ‘cause he knows Dad is <strong>hurting</strong> him—<em>not that he is hurting Dad</em>—but Dean can’t see it <strong>that</strong> way. He can’t think of this sick-twist <strong>need</strong> that him and Dad have fed all these years, as anything aside from <strong>comfort</strong> and payment for the <em>‘Oxy,’</em> Dad, supplied him for years.</p><p>Dean can get his <strong><em>own</em></strong> prescription, now.</p><p>There is so much extensive pain that lives in his bones—<em>permanently</em>—after Dad nearly <strong>killed</strong> him, that Dean can use his very real <em>chronic</em> pain to score a prescription.</p><p>“This ain’t so <strong>black</strong> an’ <em>white</em>, Bobby,” Dean argues, ‘cause there is still <em>something</em> in him—<em>something that Dad talks about</em>—that Dean knows <em>must</em> be real. Must run in <strong><em>their</em></strong> family like a <strong>parasite</strong> leeching on his blood. “I’ve been <em>messed-up</em> since I can remember. Dad is <strong>drawn</strong> to me … like this magnetic pull—<em>this freakin’ tether</em>—an’ <em>Sammy …”</em> Dean’s breath catches in his throat. “Sammy is, <strong>too</strong>. An’ I dunno why, but I <em>know</em> it’s ‘cause of me—cause of somethin’ that’s just <strong>wrong</strong> in me, Bobby … I’ve always had this … this <strong><em>hold</em></strong> over people, an’ it ain’t never goin’ <em>away.”</em></p><p>Dean sees Bobby puzzling out what he is telling him, like it is some sorta equation to be solved—but this is something, Dean, knows <strong>can’t</strong> be solved.</p><p>‘Cause how <em>can it be?</em></p><p>Dean has tried every <strong>supernatural</strong> test he knows about—his blood is technically <em>‘clean,’</em> and his parents <strong>are</strong> human. So why is he <em>like</em> this?</p><p>It is a <strong>burden</strong>.</p><p>Always <strong><em>has</em></strong> been.</p><p>“Dean. You ain’t some sorta <strong>magnet</strong> for … for <em>that</em> sorta thing … you an’ Sam,” Bobby sighs, “Look, I got <strong><em>eyes</em></strong>, okay? I know what you two have … <em>well,</em> it ain’t strictly <strong>brotherly</strong>, an’ it quite <strong>frankly</strong>, ain’t <em>normal</em>, neither. But, that said, Sam, loves you ‘cause he’s your <strong>brother</strong>. An’ God knows, John, ain’t been ‘round near enough to raise him up, like <em>you</em> have. So, he latched <em>on</em>. An’ he’s always been a <strong>sensitive</strong> kid, so, he latched on in the <strong>wrong</strong> sorta way, but it ain’t cause you’re a <em>magnet</em>.”</p><p>Wiping at his tears, Dean, sniffles.</p><p>“What I <strong>did</strong> with, Dad … I did it to <em>protect</em>, Sam, Bobby. I never wanted, Dad, to twist-up, Sammy, if for some reason, Dad, started seein’ <em>Sammy</em> as lookin’ like our mom, <strong>too</strong>. So, Dad, wasn’t around, Sammy, ‘cause I didn’t <strong><em>want</em></strong> him to be.”</p><p>Bobby gives him a baffled sorta look, that turns into one of complex understanding.</p><p>“Sammy’s <em>my</em> kid, Bobby. He’s always gonna be <strong><em>my</em></strong> kid, ‘cause I <strong>raised</strong> him. Not, Dad … I fed and clothed him—I did <strong>everything</strong> … things I <em>shouldn’t’ve</em> to <em>keep</em> him …” It feels almost <strong>cathartic</strong> to let all these secrets spill out, once he started—it seems he can’t <strong>stop</strong>. “That’s how I <strong><em>know</em></strong> I ain’t right, somewhere … I can attract just ‘bout <strong>anyone</strong> if I’ve a <em>mind</em> to.”</p><p>Bobby seems to ponder that for a moment, then says, “Well, I ain’t never got the urge to do <em>nothin’</em> to you, Dean. So, it ain’t just a <strong>given</strong>, now, is it?”</p><p>Dean blushes <em>furiously</em> and snaps out of his own head. Turning back away to gather up the <strong>remainder</strong> of his things from on top of Bobby’s guest bed.</p><p>“I ain’t never tried it on <strong><em>you</em></strong>, Bobby. And I ain’t <strong>gonna</strong>,” Dean tells him, still too red-cheeked to look Bobby in the eyes as he says it.</p><p>Bobby seems amused—<em>just a little bit</em>—and claps Dean on the shoulder.</p><p>“I wanna hear your voice at least once a <strong><em>month</em></strong> on the phone, Dean. Alrigh’? If you’re gonna go <em>back</em> to him—then that’s the only thing that’s gonna <strong>satisfy</strong> me, okay?”</p><p>With trembling hands, Dean, nods and gives Bobby a hug.</p><p>“Alright, Bobby<em>. I’ll call,”</em> Dean reassures him, before making a beeline for the <strong>exit</strong>.</p><p>Dean is down the stairs and packed into Baby in a minute—and driving outta the junkyard in a cloud of dust, <em>in two.</em></p><p>And, Dean, <em>doesn’t call.</em></p><p>
  <em>Not for years.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Once, Dean, is back at Dad’s side, again, things <em>(at least where hunting is concerned)</em> are back to normal.</p><p>As for <strong>sleeping</strong> arrangements, Dean, sleeps in his own bed, on his <em>own</em> side of the room and makes it crystal clear that he is <strong><em>never</em></strong> gonna let Dad into it, again—<em>nor ask for it, again, for that matter.</em></p><p>Dad doesn’t challenge him on this, <em>(thankfully)</em> doesn’t even question it—<em>just agrees.</em></p><p>Bobby was right about one thing, Dean, is a <strong>man</strong>, now—and he can make his <strong><em>own</em></strong> goddamned decisions.</p><p>Deciding to only sleep with <em>‘chicks,’ </em>where he can be in control and on top—is what Dean <strong>decides</strong>, is best for <strong>him</strong>.</p><p>His days of, <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks,’</em> are behind him, and as long as he has somethin’ to hunt—something to keep his mind secluded and focused on the mission: <em>‘kill any monster that breathes air,’</em> well then, Dean, can keep breathing <em>himself</em>.</p><p>He decides that he is saving more people than he’s hurting, and that that is <strong>his</strong> job. He is able to pack all of his shit away in his head and <em>(aside from nightmares that have him wrenched in his sheets and Dad shaking him awake)</em> he is sane enough to survive—<em>to pull through.</em></p><p>There are still weak moments, where Dean slices at his skin—<em>lets the blood come up to the surface and ooze</em>—but he doesn’t cut deep enough to die, just deep enough to release some of these tangent emotions that leak through the cracks, sometimes.</p><p>The really bad hunts can do that to him. Make him think of things he doesn’t wanna. Especially when kids are involved. Kids make him think of, Sam, and Sam makes Dean remember …</p><p>Food is still a massive comfort. Cake, pie—<em>especially pie</em>—and burgers … Dean is <strong><em>always</em></strong> on the lookout for food to eat. Something to keep him tamped down.</p><p>To keep his <strong>thoughts</strong> off Sammy.</p><p>
  <em>Sex helps, too. </em>
</p><p>Dean, <strong>doesn’t</strong> go back to, Sammy, when his next birthday rolls around, Dean, is halfway across the <strong>country</strong> with a six-pack of beer and some chick whose name he <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> remember.</p><p>Shit does get bad, still, sometimes during the day between hunts—and if he can’t get pie or a pick-up a chick, Dean, just uses his fingers to pinch his wrist, in order to shove all the bad memories back out—<em>the bad thoughts about Dad and Sammy</em>—clear away, so that he can do his job—<em>or find one.</em></p><p>Dean is back to wearing Dad’s leather jacket, to exuding this self-confidence he has no damn <strong><em>right</em></strong> to possess—and has really turned to making everything a joke <em>(especially this damn pain) </em>whenever he can.</p><p>He has started to rely a lot more on, Dad, since leaving Bobby’s. Especially when it comes to hunting things. Sometimes<em>, (if Dean has no choice)</em> he hunts solo, but he likes to <strong>avoid</strong> it as much as possible. His ear is still <em>half-deaf</em> and getting worse with <strong>time</strong><em>, (blaring loud oldies in Baby doesn’t help any, either, but that helps clear his head sometimes, too)</em> so, Dean, still feels like he might not hear a monster <em>(one of these days)</em> and get killed, ‘cause of it.</p><p>Were he still in that <em>dark</em> place, dying, wouldn’t have mattered so much—<em>but he isn’t.</em></p><p>Not anymore.</p><p>And people would die without him there to save them—<em>and he likes saving people.</em></p><p>So, two days ago, when Dad <strong>disappeared</strong> on him, while he was off on a solo hunt, Dean, feels himself <strong>floundering</strong>.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Unsteady.</em> </strong>
</p><p>Not knowing what the <strong>hell</strong> to do!</p><p>He panicked, <em>first</em>.</p><p>Descended into a full-blown <strong>shaking</strong> <strong>and crying</strong> fit in, Baby, this morning when Dad <em>still</em> wouldn’t answer his phone, despite the <strong>slew</strong> of <em>‘SOS-like’</em> voicemails Dean has been <strong>leaving</strong> him.</p><p>Dad is just … <em>just gone.</em></p><p>And all, Dean, has of Dad is this troubling voicemail that could mean, Dad, got taken out on a hunt!</p><p>And, Dean, realizes that he is <strong><em>close</em></strong> to Sammy—<em>close to Stanford</em>—and something in him just <strong>needs</strong> to bring Sammy into this.</p><p>It isn’t <strong>logical</strong>—hell, Dean, has been <em>very, very good</em> about keeping his promise about <strong><em>never</em></strong> bothering, Sammy, again …</p><p>But this … this is about, <em>Dad. </em></p><p>This is about the only person, <em>Dean</em>, has left in this world …</p><p>And sure, Sammy, might not <strong>care</strong> … but … but Dean has to at least <strong><em>try</em></strong> to get his brother to <strong>help</strong> him. ‘Cause if this thing—whatever it is—took out, <strong><em>Dad</em></strong> … Dean doesn’t stand a <em>chance</em> flying solo on this case <em>(not with a half-deaf ear and ornery-as-hell body to contend with!) </em>so he doesn’t have a choice but to <strong>plead</strong> … beg if he has to … for Sammy to <strong>help</strong> him.</p><p>‘Cause facing this on his <strong>own</strong>—facing the possibility of finding out Dad got <strong>ripped</strong> apart by some sorta friggin’ monster? –that is something, Dean, can’t <strong><em>handle</em></strong> alone, right now.</p><p>
  <em>Sammy will understand …</em>
</p><p>Dean tries to shove down the <strong>memory</strong> of what Sammy yelled at him last they spoke. Tries not to think about how much Sammy hurt him … <em>last time …</em></p><p>But this isn’t <strong>about</strong> that—this isn’t about what they <strong>used</strong> to have—<em>or getting Sammy back into that …</em></p><p>This is <strong><em>just</em></strong> about finding, <strong>Dad</strong>.</p><p>That is <em>it</em>—<em>that is all</em>, Goddamnit!</p><p>Dean parks outside the house, Sammy, is stayin’ at, now.</p><p>Pastor Jim gave him the address when he called in search of, <em>Dad.</em> The house itself is <strong>nice</strong>—better even than the one they would have been <strong>raised</strong> in if Mom never died.</p><p>Nervous as shit, Dean, devours a whole pumpkin pie <em>(Dean fucking hates Halloween but he is here for the pie that comes with it)</em> in the front seat of, Baby, trying to imagine what Sammy is gonna <strong>say</strong>.</p><p>The lights are all off, which means that Sammy is <strong>asleep</strong>. And Dean is starting to rethink actually going in there, now, that he is sitting outside, thinking about the <strong>tortured</strong> look in Sammy’s eye last time he sought him out in <em>need …</em></p><p>Dean isn’t beat-up <strong>this</strong> time, around.</p><p>Hasn’t cut his skin in <strong>days</strong> <em>(all of his wounds are scabbed over)</em> and Dad hasn’t laid a <strong>finger</strong> on him <em>(to beat him up or otherwise)</em> in over a <strong>year</strong>. So, even if Sam holds him down and … and <strong><em>hurts</em></strong> him, like last time, he’ll see that Dean hasn’t been with <strong>anyone</strong>—he’s tightened back up, <em>down there.</em></p><p>And, Dean, <strong><em>isn’t</em></strong> drunk.</p><p>No more than <em>usual</em>, anyway. And he hasn’t popped a pill in a <strong>couple</strong> days.</p><p>He has been allowing the burn of his pain to keep him focused—<em>he does that, sometimes.</em></p><p>Allows the pain to have, <em>its,</em> say over how his body moves and acts.</p><p>So, Sammy, can’t say he is here—<em>numb and dumbed down</em>—at least not, <strong>purposefully</strong>, anyway. And only here to get back with, Sammy, ‘cause Dean doesn’t want that anymore—can’t want that, now.</p><p>Dean never <strong><em>deserved</em></strong> that good, bliss-like thing they had going between them, <em>anyhow</em>.</p><p>So, after a good ten more minutes of debating—Dean, finally gets outta Baby and heads inside.</p><p>The floorboards creek underfoot and the scent of Sammy is everywhere. Dean feels his chest ache, somberly after he picks the lock and heads towards <em>(what he hopes)</em> is the kitchen in <strong>search</strong> of a beer.</p><p>Maybe he <strong><em>should</em></strong> be a little more drunk when he does this …</p><p>Suddenly—<em>the smell of Sammy is on him and all around him</em>—and he is wrestled <strong>down</strong> to the floor where he fights, kicks, and hits at Sammy … <em>thinking</em> … thinking Sammy is gonna do it, <strong>again</strong>—<em>or try to.</em></p><p>But Sammy is outta <strong>practice</strong>.</p><p>And, Dean, flips him onto his back in a <strong>second</strong>, pinning him down and Sammy looks up at him with this <strong><em>confused</em></strong> stare … with this furrowed brow and <em>shocked-shitless</em> <em>greenish-brownish eyes.</em></p><p>
  <em>  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Whoa, Easy Tiger!” Dean says the first thing that comes to mind, (even though he <strong>never</strong> really calls Sammy that) ‘cause he’s so damn nervous … and scared … but he forces this smile anyway … ‘cause it’s Sammy and he has fuckin’ missed him … and Goddamn he has really, really missed his little brother … his other half …</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dean?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hey, Sammy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. part 11; shadows & pasts reawakened.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Dean seeks out Sammy at college. Dad is missing.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Dean is 26.<br/>Sam is 22.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>Hello, Lovelies!<br/>I am so sorry for the long delay in my latest update! I had to work on a commission fanvideo (which took me days), and I also created a Dean vid, (which I think fits perfectly with this story tbh), before I got around to working on this!I have decided for the most part, that I am going to be skipping past bits and pieces of their canon cases, with the exception of ones I want to alter/would be altered by the past events I've explored in this fic!<br/>So, another words, unless I explicitly show a scene (event in their lives) such as the pilot which is in the storyline below, as changed, assumed that the canon episodes of the show are happening as they did in the show! I have a few plot bunnies for minor changes and also fun changes that will explore Sam and Dean much more deeply than what we saw in the show, but most of these instances will be set in-between episodes. I don't have any plans to try and type out actual scenes from the show (that I am not going to alter) if this is at all making sense!<br/>Anyway! I hope you all enjoy this new installment! </i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 11; shadows &amp; pasts reawakened.</em>
  </strong>
</p><hr/><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Of all the pains,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>the worst kind of pain</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>is to love, </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>and love in vain.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/>
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    <iframe></iframe>
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</div><div class="center"></div><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <em>xxvi. foiled plans &amp; red-hot promises.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>There are all these pent-up emotions that are running wild in, Dean. Like the <em>‘thump-thump,’</em> of his heart as it pounds, wildly—and the glorious heat that exudes off Sammy’s warm-blooded body, while Dean stays, here, poised on top—<em>holding his brother down.</em></p><p>Dean has missed their days spent, latched together on shitty motel sofas, and their nights tangled in bedsheets smelling like each other, after <em>(what seemed like)</em> endless rounds of <strong>sex</strong> in a crap motel bed that announced their every movement with loud groan-like creaks.</p><p>
  <em>God.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean just missed this …</em>
</p><p>Sam is still sending him this bewildered, <em>‘what the fuck is this?’</em> expression but Dean is just trying to keep his nerve—‘cause he can’t face <strong>this</strong> alone … and he has to find a way to convince Sammy that he’s <strong><em>worthy</em></strong> of his help … especially after <em>last</em> <em>time …</em></p><p>Dean finds himself on his back, as Sam flips them over—and then, the light switches on with a little <em>‘flick,’</em> and Dean shoves Sammy off—<em>heart hammering in his ears</em>—and scrambles to his feet; caught <strong>completely</strong> unawares.</p><p>Had he been down earlier in the day, he might have scouted this place out a bit … seen that Sammy <em>isn’t</em> living in this big ‘ol house by his <strong>lonesome</strong> … but there wasn’t <em>time</em> for that.</p><p>And, Dean, is brought face to face with this <em>…</em> <em>angel …</em></p><p>The second, Dean, glances over and sees this leggy-blonde that is hovering in the doorway, there is this <em>sick-hot-burn</em> that sinks down into his pelvis and churns in his balls.</p><p>
  <em>Shit …</em>
</p><p>Dean told Sammy to move on <em>(albeit while Sammy was asleep)</em> and prayed that Sammy would <em>… but …</em> Dean expected a <strong><em>male</em></strong>—some closeted <em>shy</em> gay that, Sam, would have latched onto to fulfill his needs … but <strong>this</strong>?</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Her</em>
  </strong>
  <em>?</em>
</p><p>Dean <strong><em>never</em></strong> expected.</p><p>He instantly approaches this blond-bombshell. Hitting on her <em>(it’s second nature to entice <strong>all</strong> chicks at this point, especially after the past year of doing precisely that)</em> with this casual <em>‘cool,’</em> that he is used to exuding around females.</p><p>“Who’s this, friggin’ <em>temptress</em>, Sammy?”</p><p>Sam is already on his feet, by this point and has this blush spread all-across his cheeks that shows off, Sam’s, embarrassment <strong>plainly</strong>.</p><p>There is almost this flustered, flabbergasted angst in the room—<em>thick with tension,</em> and suffocating as all hell!</p><p>This girl must sense it, too, ‘cause there is this <em>‘rapid-fire’</em> <em>air</em> about her … this <strong>poise</strong> … but also this <em>hesitance …</em></p><p><em>“Sammy?”</em> Jess looks to, Dean, with a raised brow, then back at Sam as though there is some sorta silent-like <strong>question</strong> passing between them.</p><p>And Sam flushes even redder and stumbles through an explanation.</p><p>“This is, <em>D-Dean,”</em> Sam announces and Jess’s attitude changes on a dime.</p><p>She has this warm, welcoming air that almost <strong>intoxicates</strong>, Dean, on contact—<em>and though she is still a bit leery</em>—she is also clearly very <strong><em>fond</em></strong> of Sam, and therefore his <strong>family</strong> …</p><p>“Your <strong><em>brother</em></strong>, Dean?”</p><p>This is going smoother than, Dean, would have <strong>expected</strong> it to go. It is far more difficult for Sam to outright dismiss him with a <em>girl</em> in the mix.</p><p>This, Jess, is turning out to be the blessing in disguise that, Dean, <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to crack—<em>and break</em>—through the ice of Sam’s exterior <em>‘Fort-Knox-like,’</em> walls.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sammy confirms, still with this <em>weariness</em> about him.</p><p>Dean decides to try and ask to speak to Sam—<em>alone</em>—but Sam only heads to Jess with this pointed, <em>‘we-aren’t-gonna-do-this-again,’</em> sorta stare primed straight at, Dean, and wraps an arm around her shoulders—as though using her as a <em>shield …</em></p><p>Which, in all fairness, Sam, sorta is … and Dean can’t <strong>blame</strong> him. Not, after the last time … Dean showing up drunk, <em>needy …</em> getting Sammy back between those <strong>sheets</strong> … well, Dean, doesn’t blame Sammy in the least for using Jess as a <em>human shield</em> against the wrong things that occurred the last time, Dean, showed up outta the blue in the middle of the night, like <em>this …</em></p><p>Lowering one of his hands, instinctively, Dean, pinches his wrist. Trying to anchor himself and get through this, as quickly as possible.</p><p>He hurries through the short <em>‘dumbed-down,’</em> explanation. Dad going on a <em>‘hunting trip,’</em> alone and not <em>checking in.</em></p><p>Jess looks confused—<em>and Sam goes rigid.</em></p><p>Well, that’s <strong>something</strong> at least …</p><p>Dean finally convinces Sam to have a <em>private</em> word with him—and even as Sam follows him down the stairs—there is this <strong>awkwardness</strong> between them.</p><p>Something that has never lived in the air when they are together—<em>until, now.</em></p><p>“What’re you <em>doin’</em> here, Dean?” Sammy confronts him almost the second they are well outta earshot of Jess. “How many times are you gonna <em>do</em> this?”</p><p>Dean swallows down the spit that pools in his mouth and pinches his wrist-skin, again, in an attempt to keep all this <strong>anxiety</strong> in check.</p><p>“Look, <em>Sammy—”</em></p><p>“It’s, <strong>Sam</strong>, now, Dean. <em>Just, <strong>Sam</strong>.”</em></p><p>Dean feels this pit in his stomach as Sam corrects him—Sam has <strong>never</strong> corrected him before.</p><p><em>“Sammy—”</em> Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to correct him a second time, “—I’m not <strong>here</strong> for … for the reasons you <strong>think</strong>. I really just need your <em>help</em> with locatin,’ Dad. That’s <em>all.”</em></p><p>Another eyeroll comes outta, Sam. “I have no <strong>interest</strong> in helpin’ you locate, Dad. He can go to <strong>hell</strong> for all I care—and that goes for you, <strong><em>too</em></strong>, actually.”</p><p>Swallowing down the sarcasm and witty-words, Dean, had planned to use to help convince Sam that helping him is the <strong><em>right</em></strong> course, Dean, instead breathes through his panic—and tries not to <strong>burst</strong> into tears, like he did when he first realized, Dad, was <strong>gone</strong>.</p><p>“I know you don’t <strong><em>mean</em></strong> that, Sammy … I … I’m still your big brother … I’m <em>always</em> gonna be your big brother … an,’ Dad … Dad’s all I <em>got …”</em> There is something about being this close to, Sammy, right now, that is having this <strong>effect</strong> on, Dean, ebbing and feeding on his confidence that built up in the time he spent without Sammy close—with Dad being the only thing he’s <em>depended</em> on.</p><p>“Yeah. An’ I bet you’re still layin’ on your <strong>back</strong> for him, too, aren’t you, Dean?” Sammy clutches tight to the leather of Dean’s jacket and pushes him back against the nearby brick-wall of this building. “That’s what this is <strong><em>really</em></strong> about, isn’t it?”</p><p>Dean takes a second to steady his breathing. Lifts his hands to rest on Sammy’s adrenaline-warmed nightshirt. This heat that’s blaring off of Sammy is almost <strong>euphoric</strong> to Dean—and he has to count in his head so as not to react to it bodily—but he is still so <strong><em>drawn</em></strong> to, Sam—always gonna <strong>be</strong> drawn to him.</p><p>“No, Sam. I <em>haven’t …”</em> Dean closes his eyes and releases a breath. “Dad is my back-up on <strong>hunts</strong>, Sammy. Okay? That is <strong><em>all</em></strong> it is, now. I can’t … I <strong>haven’t</strong> …” Dean doesn’t want Sammy to know that what <em>Sammy</em> did on their last night … well, Dean, can’t even <strong><em>think</em></strong> about having another man on <strong>top</strong> of him, now.</p><p>Not <strong>even</strong>, Sammy … and <strong><em>least</em></strong> of all, <em>Dad …</em></p><p>This anger-riddled adrenaline is making, Dean, nervous. ‘Cause, what if, Sammy, <em>‘checks,’</em> again? Dean never wants to see Sammy so chaotic and cruel—<em>ever again.</em></p><p>With a split-second decision, Dean, shoves Sammy out of his space and sidesteps away from the wall—<em>needing room to breathe.</em></p><p>Sam appears surprised when, Dean, denies it this time. They both know, Dean, avoids eye contact when he <strong>lies</strong>—but this time, Dean, <em>didn’t</em> avoid Sammy’s eyes.</p><p>There is nothing to <strong>hide</strong>—<em>Dean is telling the truth.</em></p><p>“Look, I didn’ come here to mess up your <strong>life</strong>, or anythin’ like that, Sammy,” Dean redirects this twisted-up conversation, trying to get back on topic as quickly as he can. “I didn’t even <strong>know</strong> you’d have a … well … someone <em>livin’</em> with you.”</p><p>Sammy clears his throat and looks down at the floor with this <em>shadowy-look</em> on his face.</p><p>“Course you <strong>wouldn’t</strong>. Because we don’t <strong><em>talk</em></strong> anymore, Dean—because of what <strong><em>you</em></strong> did! <em>Remember?”</em> Sam lashes out. “And she’s not just a <em>‘someone,’ </em>she’s my <strong>girlfriend</strong>, Dean. Not that you’d know what it’s <strong>like</strong> to have one. Since you just screw with <strong><em>all</em></strong> the girls.”</p><p>Dean blinks a couple times, as what Sammy just said sinks in—and stings <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong>, inside of him.</p><p>“I know <em>exactly</em> what it’s <strong>like</strong>—I had <strong><em>you</em></strong>, didn’t I, Sammy?”</p><p>Sammy goes stiff and looks hurt—<em>conflicted, even</em>—and Dean takes this opportunity to try to work back to the subject at hand.</p><p>
  <em>Dad.</em>
</p><p>“Look. I know I have <strong>no</strong> right to be here—I <strong>know</strong> that, I <strong><em>do</em></strong>. But, Sammy, this is, <strong>Dad</strong>. And … And he said he was getting close to the thing that <em>killed</em>, Mom. And even if you hate, <strong>Dad</strong>, Mom, was <em>innocent</em> in all of this. An’ her killer is <strong>still</strong> out there—an’ might’ve just gotten, <strong>Dad</strong>, too.”</p><p>This piques, Sam’s interest and his head pops up—<em>eyes wide.</em></p><p><em>“Yellow eyes? </em>Dad’s <strong><em>found</em></strong> him?”</p><p>Dean lets out a little sigh of relief, “I think he <strong>might’ve</strong>. So, will you <em>help</em> me, or not?”</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sam didn’t expect <em>this</em>.</p><p>Never expected, Dean, to show up here, <strong>again</strong>—<em>after last time</em>—and sure as hell never expected to be asked back into all of this crap that he has been working towards avoiding, <em>forever …</em></p><p>
  <em>But here he is.</em>
</p><p>Packing a damn bag, about to leave Jess on a dime—without much of an explanation that he <em>can</em> even give her.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“So, <strong>Dean</strong>, calls you, <em>Sammy?”</em> Jess quips from the edge of the bed, while watching him, with a look of concern on her face.</p><p>This burn of shame takes hold of his stomach and wrenches—Sam never wanted <em>her</em> to meet, Dean, for <strong>this</strong> reason. Sam never wanted, Jess, to <em>know</em> that Dean calls him <strong>that</strong>.</p><p>“Yeah. Sometimes, I <em>guess …”</em> Sam tries to be dismissive, but Jess has this all-knowing stare on her face that tells him—<em>she has pieced this together.</em></p><p>“So … is that why you like <strong><em>me</em></strong> to call you that, sometimes?” she alludes to those shameful moments of intimacy that make Sam wanna die, <em>most times …</em></p><p><em>“<strong>No</strong>—of course not!” </em>Sam says it with this panicky-sound in his throat and Jess only smiles—<em>with this same knowing smile</em>—and Sam’s gut clenches.</p><p>“Whatever you say, <em>Sammy—”</em></p><p><em>“Don’t call me that …” </em>Sam breathes, trying not to think about all the times she’s said it while that plastic device is lodged inside of him—<em>replicating Dean.</em></p><p>“You <strong>like</strong> it when I call you that, <em>admit it,”</em> Jess bats her eyelashes and has Sam in a bound-up knot in seconds.</p><p>“I mean it. Please, Jess … Just <em>… not right now,”</em> Sam lessens his tone, trying to sound <strong>reasonable</strong>—<em>instead of jumpy and off-beat.</em></p><p>She softens and steers this conversation in another direction, entirely. “So, you’re going to follow your <em>dad?</em> On this <em>hunting trip</em> in the wilderness?”</p><p>“Yeah. It’s just for a couple days. <em>No big deal,”</em> Sam says, trying to make himself sound even remotely convincing.</p><p>Jess nods her head, with this worried expression on her face. “And what about the <strong>interview</strong>?”</p><p>Sam shrugs it off.</p><p>He is determined to make it back in time to attend—<em>of course</em>—but Dean wouldn’t have showed up here, if he really didn’t think Dad is in <strong>trouble</strong>—and that he might’ve found the thing that <strong>killed</strong> <em>Mom</em>.</p><p>The recording <strong><em>is</em></strong> off—<em>Sam listened to it a few minutes, ago, and proved that Dean isn’t lying about anything</em>—much less faking those concerned, markedly-anxious <em>pinches</em> to his wrist, either.</p><p>Even though, Mom, is like this unattainable <em>dream</em> in his mind, Sam, has always felt <em>(partially responsible)</em> for her death. She died in <strong>his</strong> nursery after-all, not Dean’s.</p><p>And before, Sam, left he’d been helping out on <strong>hunts</strong>, helping Dad and Dean try and <strong>nab</strong> that thing that killed her.</p><p>If it weren’t for <em>‘Yellow-eyes,’</em> maybe everything wouldn’t be so fucked-up in their lives—<em>in Sam’s life</em>—and maybe, just maybe, Dean wouldn’t have wound up <strong>doing</strong> what he did, with Dad.</p><p>No matter how hard, Sam, tries he still can’t get the image of Dean and Dad outta his head—even if it has been almost <strong>four</strong> years since <strong><em>that</em></strong> night.</p><p>“I’ll make it back for the interview—<em>no problem.</em> I <strong>promise</strong>, Jess.”</p><p>Sam tries to ease up a bit and even offers her a <strong>gentle</strong> smile, but he feels like his whole world has just been wrenched apart again.</p><p>And it has—Dean has this <strong>effect</strong> on him … this sick-rush need, that makes it damn-near <strong>impossible</strong> for Sam to think straight, because of it.</p><p>God, Dean, just knows how to twist in this <strong>knife</strong> of regret—and Sam can’t seem to stick with the word <em>‘no,’</em> period … <em>that’s why …</em></p><p>As a kind of afterthought, Sam, approaches the dresser at the end of the bed, and tugs open one of the drawers. Inside, Sam, tugs out the phone and charger, Dean, bought him for his birthday way back when.</p><p>It hasn’t been used—<em>or even turned on</em>—since Sam made it to college, cross-country. And he never even <strong>listened</strong> to any one of those messages … because he knew what would have <strong>happened</strong> if he had—<em>Sam would’ve gone back.</em></p><p>Back <strong>home</strong> <em>… to Dean.</em></p><p>Sam pockets the phone and charger, <em>(double checks that he has his current, <strong>working</strong>, cellphone)</em> then zips up his duffle, and Jess blocks his path to the door.</p><p>“Are you sure, you’re okay, Sam? You’re gonna <em>come <strong>back</strong></em>, right?” she looks worried—almost like she thinks he is gonna <strong>abandon</strong> her.</p><p>
  <em>God.</em>
</p><p>One thing is for <strong>certain</strong>—Sam is in <strong><em>love</em></strong> with Jess, now. This thing they have—<em>have had</em>—it stands apart from what he used to have with Dean. And it makes him feel a bit <strong>better</strong>—<em>somewhat worthy of things</em>—where as it was never that way when he was with, Dean.</p><p>Dean, always kept him on the brink of <strong>bliss</strong>—then found a way to make him feel like <strong>shit</strong> for needing Dean’s love—<em>a <strong>boy’s</strong> love …</em></p><p>But still … <em>still …</em> Dean <strong>calls</strong>—<em>Dean asks</em>—and he jumps ship and <strong><em>goes</em></strong> with him.</p><p>
  <em>Despite everything …</em>
</p><p>So maybe, just <em>maybe …</em> Sam is the <strong>sick</strong> one, after all.</p><p>
  <em>Not, Dean.</em>
</p><p>Jess standing here … right now, asking if he is gonna come back hits <strong>hard</strong> and he leans in and seals it with a kiss.</p><p>“I <strong>promise</strong>. I’m coming <em>back</em>, Jess. This is my <strong>home</strong>—you’re my home. <em>Just you.</em> And I will <strong>always</strong> come back to it. Back to <em>you.”</em></p><p>She smiles with this little tilt to her head that he <strong>adores</strong>—and steals one more kiss, before he walks through their bedroom door, and heads out to the Impala—<em>out to Dean.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>There is this dead, silent-like stagnancy that seeps into the air, like this damn heatwave, and everything feels wrong and tense about it.</p><p>Dean has wanted this chance <em>(forever, now)</em> to have Sammy quiet—<em>and here with him</em>—but it’s been three-and-a-half <strong><em>years</em></strong> since that night, and a good <em>eighteen months</em> since their last <em>(off-the-wall)</em> encounter.</p><p>And, now … now, Sammy, <strong>has</strong> a girl.</p><p>Someone to go <strong>back</strong> to—and it is far too late to patch up things.</p><p>That chance it gone and, in all honesty, Dean, knows that he doesn’t <em>deserve</em> Sammy’s help—nor his <strong>forgiveness</strong> for that matter. Dean spent the majority of Sammy’s <strong>life</strong>, <em>lying</em> to him.</p><p>Keeping him in the dark … taking to Dad’s bed … <strong>God</strong>. What, Dean, hasn’t <strong><em>done</em></strong> to keep his Sammy, safe.</p><p>No … Sammy isn’t <em>‘his,’</em> Sammy, <em>anymore</em>.</p><p>Now, he is, <em>‘Jess’s,’</em> Sammy.</p><p>After almost <em>two</em> <em>hours</em> of classic rock tunes blaring through Baby’s stereo, and a stubbornly silent, <em>Sammy</em>—Dean finally can’t take this anymore.</p><p>He <strong><em>has</em></strong> to say something.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Sammy. For <strong><em>all</em></strong> of it.”</p><p>Sam tears his eyes away from glancing out the window with this <strong>innocuous</strong> expression on his face—that turns into a <em>grimace</em> in a second-flat.</p><p>“Dean. Can we <strong>not</strong> do this, now? Scratch that. Can we not do this … <em>ever?”</em> Sam says in this voice bitter and poisonous.</p><p>Dean grips tighter to the steering wheel and lets out a pent-up sigh.</p><p>“I ain’t gonna try an’ <strong><em>justify</em></strong> any of it—”</p><p>“’Cause you <em>can’t, </em>Dean. It isn’t <strong>justifiable</strong>. Period!” Sam snaps back—quick and bone-jarringly, <em>deep.</em></p><p>Dean fights back tears that threaten to start welling up in his ducts—<em>and blinks furiously to make them go away.</em></p><p>“It was never like I <strong>planned</strong> it, Sammy. It was never like I just … I <strong><em>planned</em></strong> to hurt you. It wasn’t <em>like</em> that …” There have been all these reminders—all of these things flooding through his mind screaming at how <strong>wrong</strong> he was, screaming about how he <em>broke</em> Sammy, and they never stop just <strong><em>hurting</em></strong> him.</p><p>Even when, Dean, is out <strong>hunting</strong> things—it is still difficult to put all of these thoughts and <em>feelings</em> on the backburner.</p><p>Despite his avidly worked-out system of keeping this shit <strong>buried</strong>—it will <strong><em>always</em></strong> find a way to resurface.</p><p>“Why bother <em>rehashing</em> it all, Dean? It isn’t gonna change a <em>damn</em> thing. I have, <strong>Jess</strong>, now. And I’m <em>happy. </em>And she doesn’t <em>lie</em> to me like <em>you</em> did. So, if you think I’m gonna be <strong>unfaithful</strong> to her in <strong><em>any</em></strong> damn way, you might as well turn this car around and <em>take me back!”</em></p><p>Dean wipes a betraying couple of tears as they fall—<em>then shakes his head.</em></p><p>“I wished for a <strong>good</strong> life for you, Sammy. I prayed that you’d <em>find</em> it. I ain’t gonna wreck it up. This is <strong>just</strong> about findin,’ Dad and gettin’ the bastard that killed, Mom. I <em>promise</em>.”</p><p>“Well, I have it, Dean,” Sam confirms his tone lightening a couple degrees. Hands clasped tightly in his lap, “A good <em>life,</em> I mean.”</p><p>Dean forces a tearful smile and throws a glance in Sammy’s direction. “She treats you <em>well,</em> this, Jess?” Dean pries, wanting to bask a little bit in Sam’s <strong>happiness</strong>—knowing this might be the only opportunity he <strong><em>ever</em></strong> gets to be privy to knowing a piece of Sammy’s life.</p><p>Sam seems to ease up a bit, more, once he realizes that Dean isn’t gonna screw with him like last time. His shoulders relax and his jaw unclenches. “Yeah. She <em>does</em>. She takes <strong>care</strong> of me—bosses me around a lot, but in a <strong>good</strong> way. She keeps me in <em>check</em> and … helps me when I lose my way.”</p><p>“That’s <em>great</em>. Truly. She sounds like a wonderful girl,” Dean is trying to offer his enthusiasm, despite these little clenches that keep seizing his heart with every praise, Jess, is given.</p><p>Dean can’t help but remember all the times it was his <em>job</em> to look after, Sammy. To keep him on <strong>track</strong> … and fed and <em>clothed</em> … to know that Sammy found <em>that</em> with someone else?</p><p>
  <em>It stings.</em>
</p><p>A hell of a lot.</p><p> But, Dean, can’t deny that he always <strong>wanted</strong> this for Sammy. This <strong><em>normalcy</em></strong> that Dean could never give him.</p><p>“She is.”</p><p>Dean sees this blush spread across Sammy’s face—while his eyes light up like <em>darkish</em>-emeralds.</p><p>Dean breathes through another clench of his rapidly pounding heart—and decidedly focuses more profoundly on the road, ahead.</p><p>Giving a low noise in his throat as acknowledgement and falling silent, once more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The moment they arrive there isn’t much room for idle chatter—and that is <em>(primarily)</em> a good thing, ‘cause Dean needs to focus on searching out any hints, or clues he can in order to pinpoint Dad’s whereabouts.</p><p>After narrowly skirting as <em>‘Federal Marshalls,’ </em>when they come up on a crime scene at the bridge, Dean, realizes that nothing is really adding up in this case that, Dad, was working, and after having a go-around with Sammy on the bridge, tonight, about Mom and Dad, that ended with him jumping into frigid cold water and a freakin’ ghost <em>hijacking</em> his Baby to run him <strong><em>into</em></strong> that friggin’ water—Dean just wants to shower and check out for his <em>‘four hours,’</em> of sleep.</p><p>That is, until the front-desk clerk mentions <em>Dad</em> checking in.</p><p>Dean hurries through a shower and they head over to the motel room in question, that is, <em>Dad’s.</em></p><p>Dean lets Sammy pick the lock and they both search through the room. Dad’s hotel room is unsettling in more than one way <em>(most of all, ‘cause he left so much behind)</em> and it is like he just up and left <em>everything</em>, on a <strong>dime</strong>, at that.</p><p>Worked this case<em> (top to bottom)</em> and mapped it all out, only to leave this ghost … spirit—<em>whatever she is</em>—to keep offing people. Which isn’t at <strong>all</strong> like, Dad.</p><p>Especially, considering<em>, (from observing Dad’s ‘murder-board-wall,’)</em> that Dad had figured out what this spirit was—and more importantly <em>‘who,’ </em>this spirit was.</p><p>Some chick named, <em>Constance</em>.</p><p>Dean has spent all this time <em>(lately)</em> with Dad and not noticed anything out of the ordinary <em>(at least not anymore out of the ordinary than it typically is) </em>and yet … Dad, appears to have kept so <strong>much</strong> from him.</p><p>So, <em>damn,</em> much …</p><p>To up and <strong>abandon</strong> him …?</p><p>Sure, Dad, has left Dean behind in the past, but they have an agreement—neither of them will ever go <strong>radio-silent </strong>on the other. Not without at least contacting <em>Pastor Jim … </em>or <strong>somebody</strong> so that if the other calls around, they’ll know they are <strong>safe</strong>.</p><p>Dean is on the brink of a panic attack as he pictures, Dad, dead in a ditch somewhere … ‘cause, as prickly as his relationship with, Dad, has become <strong>lately</strong> … Dad is still, <strong><em>Dad</em></strong><em> …</em> and Dean can’t do <strong>this</strong> on his own …</p><p>Sammy will go back to his life at college and Dean will have <em>no one</em> <em>…</em> no <strong>safe</strong> space.</p><p>Dean doesn’t even remember <em>starting</em> to panic—but he is suddenly gripping his chest and <strong>gasping</strong> for air.</p><p><em>“Dean? Dean?! <strong>Hey</strong>!”</em> Sammy is in front of him, clasping his cheeks and shaking him.</p><p>Somehow, Dean, wound up on his knees, in the <em>dead-center</em> of this abandoned motel room. While pinching his wrist hard enough to <strong>pierce</strong> through the skin, with Sammy desperately trying to pull him back out of this.</p><p>After a few seconds, Dean, is able to <strong>focus</strong> on Sammy, again, with this panicky-tight feeling in his chest, still present and <em>painful</em> as ever.</p><p>“What … What if he is <strong>really</strong> gone, Sammy …? What am I gonna do, <em>then?”</em> Dean has been putting on a brave face <em>(or trying to)</em> so Sammy doesn’t think any less of him … but it is so damn hard and Dean is out of <strong>practice</strong> when it comes to keeping his shit together for <em>‘Sammy’s sake,’</em> now that he hasn’t had to for three—<em>almost four</em>—years.</p><p>Sammy appears relieved, clears his throat and rises back up to his feet.</p><p>“We are gonna <em>solve</em> this case … and take it <strong>one</strong> step at a time, okay?” Sam says, with this little edge to his tone that has Dean’s stomach in knots. “We <strong><em>aren’t</em></strong> gonna panic. Dad is probably just being, <em>Dad.”</em></p><p>Dean wishes that he could actually <em>believe</em> that … but Sammy doesn’t know Dad anymore. This <strong>isn’t</strong> like him.</p><p>Dad isn’t the same as he used to be—<em>and Sammy doesn’t know the <strong>half</strong> of it.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Watching, Dean, have that meltdown screws with Sam’s mind a bit. Especially, when <em>minutes later,</em> Dean, is taken in for questioning by the <strong>local</strong> cops and Sam is left to handle shit on his own.</p><p>
  <em>(Sam wishes that Dean wouldn’t have been such a dick to them on that bridge, last night. Maybe then he wouldn’t have just been freaking nabbed!)</em>
</p><p>There are all these damn questions that Sam is left with while he questions Constance’s husband, <em>alone.</em></p><p>What <em>exactly</em> went on while he’s been off at college? Why hasn’t Dean gotten over his <strong>meltdowns</strong> by now? And why would Dad just <strong><em>abandon</em></strong> Dean … and leave his <em>things,</em> too?</p><p>Sam stayed away from his family for <strong>this</strong> very reason. All of these uncertainties—<em>all of the lies and half-truths</em>—it is a lot to take, for <em>anyone</em>.</p><p>But, especially so, when you’re in love with someone <strong>incapable</strong> of being honest with you—like Sam was in <em>love</em> with Dean …</p><p>Now that Sam is back—<em>that Sam is here</em>—with Dean and is sucked back into this vortex of hunting and being close to his big brother, it is impossible <strong>not</strong> to think about the past.</p><p>Especially about the unused cellphone burning a <strong><em>hole</em></strong> in his pocket, at the moment.</p><p>Sam wants to go home to, Jess—<em>wants to just forget that he got involved in this madness</em>—but, at the same time, Sam, feels the urge to fall into old habits.</p><p>Like, when he saw Dean on his knees in Dad’s motel room, part of him <em>(instinctively)</em> wanted to <strong>kiss</strong>, Dean, to pull him back out of it.</p><p>Just like he would have done in the <em>past.</em></p><p>Sam remembers when Dean used to have his <strong>meltdowns</strong> that in order to pull Dean back outta them, he would sometimes have to clamor into Dean’s lap, sink his hands into Dean’s shoulders—and press a <em>rough-heat</em> kiss to his lips just to <strong>make</strong> him come back …</p><p>For a split-second, Sam, thought he might have to do <strong><em>just</em></strong> that, back there …</p><p>Dean had been so … so <em>broken-looking …</em> so out of it, that Sam hadn’t known <strong><em>what</em></strong> to do.</p><p><em>How</em> to bring him back …</p><p>And all of this ancient-crap is what, Sam, is thinking about after he makes the split-second decision to call in a <em>‘fake,’</em> 911 call to give Dean enough time to get outta lock-up, and Dean calls him up from a payphone, mentioning that, Dad, not only left behind his journal, but left behind coordinates <strong><em>inside</em></strong> the thing.</p><p>The deeper this weird-ass crap goes, the more, Sam, just wants to go <strong>back</strong> home—<em>to avoid what he has with Dean</em>—to avoid this codependent-like thing they have when they are together, because Sam is actually starting to get the <strong>urge</strong> to stay with, Dean, again.</p><p>Like old times—<em>and that feels wrong and warped</em>—because there is <strong>still</strong> Jess to think about, <em>and</em> his law degree. Sam, still wants to be a lawyer and have a <strong>normal</strong> damned life …</p><p>And he is still thinking about all of this when he hangs up with, Dean, and <strong><em>Constance</em></strong> shows up in Dean’s car …</p><p>Guilt eats at Sam’s insides as Constance rides in the Impala—<em>all the way to her house.</em></p><p>Despite all of this guilt—<em>nestled like this unassuming-landmine</em>—inside of him, Sam, hasn’t been <strong>unfaithful</strong> to, Jess.</p><p>Sure, he has <strong><em>thought</em></strong> about kissing, Dean, but he didn’t <em>actually</em> <strong>kiss</strong>, Dean.</p><p>In the end, Sam, shook Dean’s shoulders until he snapped outta it.</p><p>“I haven’t been <em>unfaithful,”</em> Sam insists, minutes later, with Constance on top of him—<em>trying to entice him</em>—but it isn’t working. Sam has no <strong>desire</strong> to be with Constance.</p><p>This sick-twist desire that will <strong><em>always</em></strong> be inside of him, is for Dean—it is his deepest shame and he outright <strong>refuses</strong> to act on it, but it is <strong><em>all</em></strong> about Dean.</p><p>“You are in your <em>heart</em> and that is where it <strong>matters</strong>,” she whispers to him, one of her cold, dead hands pressed to the space over his heart—<em>and Sam feels his chest turn tight.</em></p><p>And he realizes, all the sudden, that it isn’t from Constance’s hand—<em>but his own buried truth</em>—she is <strong>right</strong>.</p><p>Dean is <strong>always</strong> gonna be in his heart.</p><p>Sure, he can bury these damn feelings under strap-ons’ and little whispered <em>‘Sammy’s’,’</em> in his ear but at the end of the day, Dean, is gonna be <strong><em>in</em></strong> his damn heart for the <strong><em>rest</em></strong> of his natural life—<em>poisoning it</em>—forever claiming a portion of Sam that can <strong>never</strong> belong to Jess …</p><p>And that is why, Sam, is <strong>here</strong> in the first place.</p><p>Primed in the front seat of Dean’s Impala—about to be fucking <strong><em>killed</em></strong> by a Goddamned ghost!</p><p>Because he is <em>always</em> gonna be torn-up over Dean—and what they <strong>had</strong> and <strong><em>lost </em></strong><em>…</em></p><p>This <em>guilt</em> is unimaginable—and Sam knows he is gonna <strong>die</strong> if he doesn’t do <strong><em>something</em></strong> to stop this.</p><p>So, he does the <em>only</em> thing he can think of.</p><p>Puts the car in drive and jams his <strong>foot</strong> on the gas pedal.</p><p><em>“I’m taking you home!” </em>Sam yells at her.</p><p>The expression of shock on her face is <em>barely</em> a registered thought as Sam feels the car wheels turn and the front-end <em>crash</em> through the porch, right into the living room of this <strong>decrepit</strong> old building.</p><p>The one thing Sam is <em>shocked</em> to hear—is Dean’s voice yelling for him as the car jams into the house …</p><p>
  <em>When did, Dean, get here?</em>
</p><p>Coughing and sputtering, Sam, shoves his way out of the Impala, opening the door.</p><p>Still, with this tight sensation in his chest which is partially from Constance’s fingers, but also because of the way he <strong><em>felt</em></strong> when Constance read his thoughts—<em>his emotions</em>—and resurfaced them all.</p><p>Dean is next to him in a second—and they <strong><em>both</em></strong> watch, stunned, while Constance is pulled down by the hands of her <strong>drowned</strong> children.</p><p>“Sammy—<em>you okay?”</em></p><p>Dean has this astonished look on his face—and Sam feels like his <strong>gut</strong> is in knots, because of it.</p><p><em>‘Shit,’</em> he thinks to himself<em>, ‘I have to get back to, Jess …’</em></p><p>Because if, Dean, keeps looking at him like he is <em>(then it is gonna be way too hard to stay faithful to Jess)</em> and she doesn’t <strong>deserve</strong> to be cheated on—<em>doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of all this, crap, either.</em></p><p>Sam brushes off his clothes and retracts from Dean’s touch—<em>like it’s burned him.</em></p><p>“I’m <strong>fine</strong>, Dean,” he says in his most cautious and reservedly stoic voice.</p><p>Dean backs off, but not before this hurt-ass look appears <em>(briefly) </em>in his eyes.</p><p>“Good. You better not’ve <em>fucked-up </em>my car, Man!” Dean says with this tone that Dean can’t really tell if it is serious or joking … Then again, when it comes to <em>‘Baby,’</em> as Dean calls his Impala, Dean, <strong>rarely</strong> jokes.</p><p>Sam <strong>does</strong> remember that much, at least.</p><p>But, right now, Sam, <em>just</em> wants Dean to take him <em>home</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean is baffled by what, Dad, left behind in his journal.</p><p>
  <em>Coordinates.</em>
</p><p>Dad leaving behind his journal is careless as <strong><em>hell</em></strong>—<em>careless as anything</em>—and that in and of itself isn’t like, Dad. Dad is <strong>very</strong> careful—<em>and he doesn’t fuck-up. </em></p><p>Not like <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> always seems to fuck shit up.</p><p>Like he fucked-up, <em>Sammy.</em></p><p>Dean shouldn’t have brought Sammy back into <strong>any</strong> of this—he almost got Sammy <em>killed</em> tonight, ‘cause Sammy is outta practice—and that is making him realize how <strong>selfish</strong> he was—<em>is</em>—for needing Sammy’s help and support on this.</p><p>So, while they’re driving and Sammy is peering at a map locating the coordinates, Dad, gave them <em>… well …</em> Dean sees the way Sammy is sitting so quiet-like in the passenger seat, and wants to apologize, but what <strong>use</strong> would that be?</p><p>What <em>good</em> would it do?</p><p>Dean <strong>forgets</strong> for a second that Sammy has an interview tomorrow … forgets that Sammy isn’t really gonna <strong>stay</strong> with him <em>(that Sammy only promised to help for the weekend)</em> and now that Dad left them coordinates to follow that almost assuredly means that, Dad, <em>is</em> alive … and Dean can figure out the <strong>rest</strong> for himself … so … Sammy doesn’t <em>want</em> to stay.</p><p>Sammy has a life and a girlfriend—<em>and most importantly</em>—Sammy has this <strong>normalcy</strong> that Dean always hoped <em>(and prayed) </em>that Sammy would one day <strong>attain</strong> … and Dean is chaos and hecticness—therefore, not a very good factor for Sammy to <em>have</em> in his life, ever—so, Dean, agrees to take Sammy <strong>home</strong>.</p><p>Home to Stanford—<em>and Jess.</em></p><p>With a reluctance in his eyes and his heart—<em>but he does it.</em></p><p>He drops Sammy off—but not before reminding him that Sammy and him <em>‘make a good team,’</em> to which Sammy agrees.</p><p>But … driving away, something feels off … <em>off-kilter</em> … not right.</p><p>Just, like something in the <strong>air</strong> isn’t right.</p><p>This godawful <strong><em>pit</em></strong> sinks into the bottom of Dean’s stomach—and a sensation that Dean has only felt <strong>once</strong> before in his whole life comes at him, right now—<em>all at once.</em></p><p>And he slams on the breaks, <strong>skidding</strong> Baby to a halt.</p><p>Dean, has only felt this dark<em>—foreboding—</em>sensation on the night, <strong>Mom</strong>, died.</p><p>Those memories are fuzzy, with blurred-out edges—<em>but</em>—Dean can <strong>still</strong> see the angel figurine on his bedside table—can still <em>hear</em> the muffled sounds coming from Sammy’s nursery—and the lurch of <em>‘something ain’t right,’</em> in his belly that had him scurrying outta bed and out into the hall, where Dad thrust <em>Sammy</em> into his arms.</p><p>One image, Dean, can remember most clearly is looking up at Sammy’s <strong>nursery</strong> window, with Sammy gripped tight in his arms in a bundle—<em>and the room up in flames</em>—wondering <strong>where</strong> Mom was.</p><p>Before Dean can second-guess it—he turns Baby around in a <strong><em>circle</em></strong> and speeds back to Sammy’s house.</p><p>Doesn’t even turn Baby’s <em>engine</em> off, before he sprints across the grass and kicks in the front door. Sammy’s <strong>screams</strong> are piercing—and Dean’s heart is pumping adrenaline like a <em>‘straight-shot’</em> through his veins—and when he bursts into Sammy’s bedroom, Dean, sees this <strong>atrocity</strong> on the ceiling that is gonna stay with him—</p><p>
  <em>—until the day he dies.</em>
</p><p>Jess—<em>this blond-bombshell that was so beautiful and breathtaking two nights ago</em>—is plastered to the ceiling, like this lifeless ragdoll. Trying to scream but to no avail <em>(‘cause try as she might no sound is escaping!) </em>and, this seep of red is stained through her lingerie where her belly is. But the most <strong>shocking</strong> thing—<em>to Dean</em>—is the burst of <strong>orange</strong> flame that spreads and <em>fans</em> out around her.</p><p>Dad has described how he found Mom in Sammy’s nursery—<em>a couple times over the years</em>—and Dean has tried his hardest to imagine what she must have looked like on that <strong>damn</strong> ceiling … but Dean could never quite <em>capture</em> that image …</p><p>
  <em>Until, now.</em>
</p><p>With, Jess, in the same light … and the <strong><em>horror</em></strong> … this is the <strong><em>worst</em></strong> Dean has ever felt.</p><p>The reality of what Dad <em>witnessed</em> that night … of what <strong>Dean</strong> is now seeing … well … it is worse than any possible <em>imagery</em>, Dean, could ever have <em>conjured-up</em> in his head.</p><p>And <strong>all</strong> he can do … is stare up and <strong><em>gape</em></strong> for several seconds …</p><p>Taking in the scent of <strong><em>burning</em></strong> human flesh – of charring wood, plaster, fiberglass <em>… of Jess … </em></p><p>And it doesn’t even <strong>hit</strong> … not at <em>first …</em> that Sammy is in this room, too, cowering on the bed he shared with, Jess, watching the girl he is <strong>madly</strong> in love with and his normal freakin’ life … go up in <strong>literal</strong> flames.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Sam fingers the cell phone and charger, still, primed like a <em>‘time-capsule-bomb,’</em> in his pocket as he heads up the walkway and into the house he shares with, Jess, with a <em>‘clank’</em> of the front door.</p><p>These <strong>endless</strong> thoughts of, Dean, are still rumbling around like this poisonous <em>ache</em> that is churning and gnarling in his <strong>gut</strong>—as these thoughts and feelings that have been wrenched up these past forty-eight hours continue to keep Sam’s <em>mind</em> in all-out spin.</p><p>Like this wheel of <strong>endless</strong> churning … <em>of endless aching …</em> and Sam is <em>conflicted</em>.</p><p>Because the fading out of Dean’s Impala engine (<em>which means Dean is becoming farer and farer, away) </em>has Sam’s ache only growing and growing the further away, Dean, becomes.</p><p>Sam isn’t over the past—<em>not by a longshot</em>—but after this semi-normal <em>(for their family, anyway)</em> weekend that he spent with, Dean, where they didn’t partake in <strong>anything</strong> wrong … and they were just like … like <em>brothers …</em> well, it has Sam thinking that maybe they can be that, <strong>again</strong>.</p><p><em>Brothers</em>.</p><p>With <strong>time</strong>, anyway.</p><p>
  <em>Just, brothers.</em>
</p><p>Shaking his head to clear that <strong>ridiculous</strong> notion, Sam, happens across the kitchen, and his conflicted emotions soften when he sees the cookies, Jess, left <em>out</em> for him on the table.</p><p>God … she baked him <strong><em>cookies</em></strong><em>!</em></p><p>Sam feels his stomach turning in flip-flops and his balls <em>ache</em> as he thinks about taking some of this frustration <em>(from being near Dean)</em> out between the sheets, tonight.</p><p>Knowing, Jess, she is probably <strong>waiting</strong> for him in some sexy outfit or another. Hoping that he <strong>keeps</strong> his promise of coming back.</p><p>Sam hates that his actions made her <em>doubt</em> that he would … <em>come back.</em></p><p>Sam, decides, right on the spot—<em>right, <strong>now</strong></em>—that he isn’t gonna leave her like that, again.</p><p>Dean said something to him … earlier … about the healthiness of <em>‘lying,’</em> to Jess—<em>and Dean is</em> <strong><em>right</em></strong>.</p><p>Lies and half-truths are what split-up <strong>Dean</strong> and him. Lies and Dean’s lack of <strong><em>trust</em></strong> in Sam … that somehow <em>… someway …</em> Dean was able to have and <strong>give</strong> to, Dad.</p><p>No. Sam isn’t gonna keep this life—<em>his past</em>—from, Jess, anymore. He is gonna tell her about these <strong>nightmares</strong> he’s been having … and about where he <em>actually</em> was, this weekend …</p><p>Sam is gonna tell her about <strong><em>all</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Stay, or go it will be up to her—and Sam will <strong>continue</strong> to have this normal, <em>‘apple-pie life,’</em> that Dean has always balked at.</p><p>Dean, can having the hunting life, because, Sam, wants <strong>this</strong>.</p><p>This domestic, <strong>bliss</strong> that he has with, Jess.</p><p>Sam wants a normal life, <em>Goddamnit!</em></p><p>With his mind made-up, Sam, heads up to their bedroom with a tired sigh and finds that she <strong>isn’t</strong> there …</p><p>For a second, he thinks it is strange <em>(her not being home)</em> but at the same time, maybe she ran out to the <em>store? </em></p><p>It is <strong>early</strong>, yet, and she did leave out cookies downstairs, with a sweet note. Why would she write a note if she was gonna be here waiting for him?</p><p>Maybe she is at a <strong>friend’s</strong> house …</p><p>He mulls over the possibility as he lays back on the sheets with his eyes closed.</p><p>That is, until he feels <em>two drips</em> on his forehead.</p><p>At first, Sam, thinks it must be <em>water …</em> but when his hand is drawn back, he can see that it is <em>(in fact)</em> <strong>blood</strong> … smells the <strong>iron</strong> as it lingers in the air.</p><p>And he jumps, near out of his skin as his mind tries to figure out <em>why</em> there is blood dripping from the ceiling.</p><p>Then, <em>(against his better judgement)</em> ….</p><p>
  <em>… he looks up.</em>
</p><p>And, God, he <strong><em>wishes</em></strong> he hadn’t …</p><p>There … sprawled out like some sorta <em>‘sacrificial lamb,’ </em>on the ceiling, Sam, sees <strong>her</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Jess …</em>
</p><p><strong><em>His</em></strong><em>,</em> Jess …</p><p>Mouth-agape, trying to speak to him—trying to <em>gasp</em> for breath <em>… for words …</em> but they <strong>aren’t</strong> coming—and Sam’s mind <strong><em>stalls</em></strong>.</p><p>This tight panic in his chest <em>heightens</em> to this searing-hot and fiery-<strong>real</strong> thing, that is like a knot, lodged in his stomach … in his <strong>heart</strong> … in his … his, <strong><em>everywhere</em></strong> … and it just builds and builds in him as he takes in this <strong>sight</strong> that doesn’t feel real.</p><p>Dad doesn’t talk much about, Mom, but <strong>one</strong> story, Sam, has known—<em>always</em>—is <strong><em>this</em></strong> one.</p><p>The one about her on the <strong>ceiling</strong>—and this isn’t just about, <em>Mom</em>, either.</p><p>It is about, <strong>him</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>About, <strong>Sam</strong>.</em>
</p><p>And all these stupid, <em>fucking,</em> nightmares that Sam has been having these past weeks, nearly on <strong>repeat</strong>, of the same thing—<em>over and over. </em></p><p>This—<em>right here</em>—this <strong>moment</strong>.</p><p>Jess, with strangled cries on the ceiling.</p><p>Blood <strong><em>leaking</em></strong> from her abdomen … but with <strong>one</strong> <em>other</em> thing …</p><p>Suddenly, she is <strong>engulfed</strong> in a sweep of flames!</p><p>Sam can hear himself screaming—but it is like this muffled, <em>far away thing</em>—and all that he can see and <strong>feel</strong> is this wrenching—God-awful—pain of <em>knowing</em> that he’s losing her.</p><p>No … not just <strong>losing</strong> her … that is, too, <em>kind</em> of a word—that he is responsible for <strong><em>murdering</em></strong> her.</p><p>By, lying about his nightmares. By running <strong><em>off</em></strong> with Dean—because he just can’t say <strong><em>no</em></strong> to his fucking brother!</p><p>But … most of all, it hits, Sam, right <strong>square</strong> in the chest … that <strong><em>this</em></strong> life … this, <em>normal-fucking-life,</em> that he hoped to make work … was <strong><em>never</em></strong> gonna happen.</p><p>Dean always used to insist that he, himself, is <em>poison</em> … but Sam realizes <em>(right here and now as Dean storms to the bed and helps yank him to his feet)</em> that it is him—that <strong><em>Sam</em></strong> is the true <strong><em>poison</em></strong> in this family.</p><p>It was <strong><em>his</em></strong> nursery that, Mom, died in.</p><p>And now, <strong><em>his</em></strong> bedroom that Jess <em>suffered</em> and <strong>died</strong> in …</p><p>Everyone around him is <em>poisoned</em> just for <strong>knowing</strong> him.</p><p>
  <em>Dean, included.</em>
</p><p>Sam screams and yells as Dean tugs and <strong>pulls</strong> him from his bedroom and down the hall. Sam can feel Dean hoisting his bag<em> (that he dropped next to his bed)</em> off the ground to loop on his shoulder as he yanks Sam out of this <strong><em>burning</em></strong> house.</p><p>Sam doesn’t stop screaming or <em>flailing</em> until he finds himself in the middle of the lawn—<em>with an amassed crowd around them gawking</em>—where he has wrestled, Dean, down to the grass from all of this <strong>anger</strong> and <em>thrashing …</em></p><p>Anger at, <strong>Dean</strong>, for coming to <em>get</em> him—anger at <strong><em>himself</em></strong> for not <em>warning</em>, Jess …</p><p>So much <strong>fucking</strong> anger!</p><p>
  <em>“S-Sammy … Sammy … I’m here … I’m <strong>so,</strong> sorry … Sammy … Sammy …. Shhh …. Shhhh ….” </em>
</p><p>Sammy can feel Dean’s <em>hands</em> on him—despite this crowd of neighbors calling for the fire department, despite these rampant fucking <em>thoughts</em> taking hold of his mind and skin and bones—there are just these <strong><em>hands</em></strong><em> …</em></p><p>Familiar and like hard, <strong><em>coarse</em></strong> leather … climbing under his <em>shirt</em> to rub at the base of his <strong>spine</strong>, up and around to the <em>front</em> of his belly. Grazing and stroking at bunched and <strong>flailing</strong> muscles—working into the sinews of <em>tissue</em> against bone …</p><p>It is <strong><em>all</em></strong> Sam can feel <em>(physically)</em> through the engulfment of shock and fear that is currently gripping his heart and bloodstream.</p><p>
  <em>Dean’s hands.</em>
</p><p>These same hands that used to touch him as a <em>boy …</em> that made him <em>love</em> and <strong>lust</strong> and <strong><em>feel</em></strong> things that <strong>never</strong> went away—<em>that still linger in the darkest reaches of his tortured mind</em>—<em>and never will …</em></p><p>“C-Calm down … I’m <strong>right</strong> here … I’m not gonna <strong><em>leave</em></strong> you … Sammy-Sam … I’m <strong><em>so</em></strong> sorry … ‘M so <em>sorry …”</em> Dean keeps repeating these <strong>sweet</strong>—<em>sensible</em>—words, over and over, near Sam’s ear and it reminds him of <strong>home</strong>.</p><p>Of the way things <em>were … </em>the way they <strong>used</strong> to be …</p><p>And Sam <em>curls</em> his body into Dean’s—<em>and sobs until he can’t <strong>think</strong> anymore …</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>xxxxx</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxvii. something like hope.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Dean is still <em>reeling</em>, hours later, at the hotel he just checked them into in town.</p><p>The sensation of Sammy in his arms is still persistent and <strong><em>real</em></strong> like this living, <strong>breathing</strong>, entity …</p><p>Dean can still see the image of Jess on the ceiling—<em>burned into his memory banks</em>—and feel the hot <em>press</em> of Sammy’s kicking, screaming body as he tried to fight his way free of Dean’s hold on him.</p><p>All, Dean, had been able to think about—<em>in that second</em>—was how he <strong>used</strong> to calm, Sammy, down when he went into these crying, <em>screaming</em> tantrums when he was little—<strong><em>touch</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>It is the only thing that has ever <em>(even remotely)</em> calmed Sammy down and all Dean could think to do in the <em>blind-panicky-<strong>rush</strong></em> of it all, was delve under Sammy’s body-warmed shirt and <strong>touch</strong> him.</p><p>Sammy <strong>had</strong> calmed <em>… eventually …</em> and like this instinctual thing, Sammy, had curled into Dean’s chest and <strong>sobbed</strong> himself hoarse with these needy little whines that had bystanders gaping and Dean’s heart in his throat ‘cause <strong><em>that</em></strong> kinda pain … well it is <strong>something</strong>, Dean prayed to God that Sammy would <strong><em>never</em></strong> have to know.</p><p>It is the same messy—<em>impulsive</em>—and unbearable, rush of immensely brutal pain that<em>, Dad, </em>carries.</p><p>Dean had been the sole witness to Dad when he mourned Mom during their <em>shared</em> nights—<em>and the expression on Dad’s face</em>—that pure, <em>agony …</em></p><p><strong>That</strong> is what, Dean, felt <strong>blasting</strong> outta Sammy’s essence, tonight.</p><p>Consuming and <em>jarring</em> the very <strong>air</strong> Dean breathed in—<em>and still is</em>—while, instantaneously <strong>crushing</strong> Dean’s ability to hold up his head and think <strong><em>past</em></strong>, loving Sammy …</p><p>‘Cause … with Sammy in his <strong>arms</strong>—with that renewed sense of <em>togetherness</em>, again, between them—<em>hovering like a bee waiting to sting</em>—well, Dean, can’t stop thinking about it.</p><p>About, <strong>Sammy</strong>.</p><p>And all of these emotions he has buried soul-deep for these past eighteen months … well, they are all resurfaced—<em>and bomb-like</em>—and taking hold of his insides.</p><p> Dean left Sammy, just now, poised (in a daze) on the edge of the motel bed closest to the bathroom and just clicked the door closed for a moment of much-needed privacy.</p><p>He can still see the image of, Jess, on the ceiling—<em>just by closing his damn eyes</em>—embedded into the fabric of his psyche—or his damn head!</p><p>Dean made himself a promise to keep, Sammy, safe … to keep <strong><em>his</em></strong> kid alive … and he <strong>did</strong> that … Dean dragged Sammy outta that house, tonight. Kicking and screaming and <strong><em>wailing</em></strong> … <strong>God</strong> … those cries and <em>wails</em> for Jess …</p><p>Gripping the rounded basin of this porcelain sink, Dean, bows his head and tries like <strong>hell</strong> to tamp down these emotions.</p><p>But, even in this second, Dean, can still feel the heat-clad berth of, Sammy. Weighted and squirming in his arms. Pushing into the front of his chest … moaning with these little, <em>‘Sammy-esk,’ </em>whimpers that Dean hasn’t heard in so damn long … it almost broke him to lay on that grass and <em>touch</em> his Sammy, again …</p><p>Dean’s done this once … he got Dad through the loss of, Mom, <em>once</em> <em>…</em> and look what it has <strong><em>done</em></strong> to him …</p><p>Dean is this <strong>hollow</strong> <em>… broken-down …</em> shell-like <em>being</em> that can’t barely even <strong>function</strong>—that struggles to <em>breathe and exist …</em></p><p>And now … Oh, God, <strong>now</strong>, Sammy, is fractured and broken and it is partially <em>(no probably mostly) </em>his fault, ‘cause he was the selfish fucking bastard that came and got Sammy outta college!</p><p>This <em>shit</em> is on him …</p><p>And this is gonna <strong>break</strong> him … <em>in half.</em></p><p>Dean can feel this twinge in his heart—<em>in his bones and chest</em>—that is sick with remorse and grief. Dean is emotionally overloaded with these <em>‘sick-burst’ </em>thoughts that have levered him as gnarled-up as it is <strong>humanly</strong> possible to be.</p><p>And, now … now, Sammy, is gonna <em>suffer</em>—and suffer for a <em>long, long time …</em></p><p>He doesn’t think he is strong enough to handle this a second time … that first time, with, Dad, Dean, gave his whole fucking <strong>soul</strong> and <strong><em>body</em></strong> into Dad’s hands. Dean kissed and <em>‘played Mom,’</em> and let Dad take <strong>everything</strong> <em>and</em> <strong><em>anything</em></strong> that he needed … and now … now, he might have to play <em>‘Jess,’</em> just to get Sammy outta this … and Dean doesn’t know if he <strong>can</strong>.</p><p>If it is even possible to get Sammy past this …</p><p>But, Dean, created this mess for his kid—for his Sammy—and he will be damned if Sammy doesn’t pull through this.</p><p>If Sammy doesn’t receive every ounce of support and love that Dean can muster from his damaged, broken, bits.</p><p>After, lying and breaking Sammy’s heart, and crashing Sammy’s perfect <em>‘picket-fence,’ </em>life, Dean, owes <strong>everything</strong> to Sammy. Everything to fix this—<em>to make it right.</em></p><p>Glancing down at his trembling hands, Dean, can still feel the little cuts on Sammy’s flesh—the imperfections … that <strong><em>warmth</em></strong> … the <em>pure-Sammy-sensation</em> that came with <strong>touching</strong> him, again.</p><p>Those ripples are still churning in Dean’s balls. Making his arousal thicken and burn with red-hot sensation—with lusts, Dean, has kept buried for<em>, too,</em> long.</p><p>There is so much <strong>pressure</strong> bundled-up, fit to burst, right now, that Dean can’t <em>handle</em> it. With a stifled breath, Dean, withdraws his pocketknife from his leather-jacket pocket, flicks it open, and cuts <strong>fresh</strong> marks into his forearms. Drawing blood, releasing some of these <em>emotions</em>—some of this repulsive <strong>shame</strong> that he can’t stop feeling deep in his gut.</p><p>After a second, Dean, breathes through all of this <strong>unreserved</strong> misery—this pain geared towards Sammy and what he was just forced to witness happen to this <em>spunky</em> girl that he loved …</p><p>Tears well and fall in <strong>tracks</strong> down Dean’s cheeks and he finally pulls himself together enough to be able to go back into the main room of their motel.</p><p>Hastily rinsing the blood from his knife, before pocketing the foldable thing and rolling his flannel sleeve back down.</p><p>Dean heads back out into the main room—back to where he left, Sammy, on the bed—and sure enough, Sammy, is <strong><em>still</em></strong> here.</p><p>With wet eyes and this <em>jagged-expression</em> on his face.</p><p>
  <em>“Sammy—”</em>
</p><p>“J-Just, <strong>d-don’t</strong>, Dean,” Sam whispers with this shaky breath. <em>“Please, don’t.”</em></p><p>Dean crosses the room and sits on the bed opposite from the one Sam is on. Part of, Dean, wants to pull Sammy into his arms … wants to brush and <strong>touch</strong> the sensitive skin <em>(like earlier on the lawn)</em> but the part with self-control—<em>wins out.</em></p><p>Dean isn’t gonna push a <strong>damn</strong> thing with Sammy.</p><p>‘Cause, Sammy, isn’t <em>‘his,’</em> anymore and he has to keep reminding himself that Sammy doesn’t <strong>want</strong> him … want his <em>touch …</em> that the lawn was a <strong>special</strong> circumstance … that Sammy isn’t <em>like</em> Dad.</p><p>Sammy is still hurt, ‘cause of their shared past—'cause of what, Dean, <strong>did</strong> to him.</p><p>And, Dean, can’t try to make up for it, just because Jess is gone—<em>and he knows that</em>—deep down … <em>he does.</em></p><p>But it is ingrained in him … to <strong>be</strong> the big brother—to take care of Sammy when shit goes to <strong>hell</strong> … and shit just went straight to <em>hell</em>—<strong>beyond</strong> to hell … it just went into exceptionally <strong>dark</strong> and <strong><em>bad</em></strong> places, the depths of which are insurmountable.</p><p>And not being able to kiss and hold, Sammy <em>… well …</em> that is the most <strong>difficult</strong> part of <strong>all</strong> of this.</p><p>“Sammy, whatever you <strong>need</strong>, Man—” Dean tries to offer himself—tries to offer Sammy the <em>world</em>, but knows he <strong>shouldn’t</strong> be.</p><p>“You can’t <strong>fix</strong> this, Dean. Jess is <em>dead,</em> alright?! She’s fucking—”</p><p>Sam chokes on the word and his mouth goes tight—eyes dark and hollow-like.</p><p>Dean feels this harsh little wrench <strong>gouge</strong> in his lower-belly and grips his wrist. Pinching hard enough to <strong>dig</strong> his thumbnail into his flesh.</p><p>“I know I can’t <em>fix</em> it. I <strong>know</strong>, Sammy, but ya gotta let me <em>try,</em> Man. Try to <strong>help</strong> at least … to ease <em>some</em> of it … to … to do <strong>something</strong> … ‘cause seein’ you in <em>pain …”</em> Dean trails off and digs his thumbnail in <strong>deeper</strong>—until he feels the blood <em>pooling</em> out from under the skin.</p><p>Sam wipes at his eyes with his jacket-sleeve and seems to notice, Dean’s <em>nervous-tick</em> habit—<em>though doesn’t comment about it.</em></p><p>“And <strong>what</strong>, Dean? What d’you think <em>you</em> are gonna be able to do to, <em>‘ease it,’ </em>huh?” Sam asks in this sarcastic tone that further makes Dean’s stomach roil with <em>effectual</em> guilt.</p><p>“I’ll do, <em>whatever</em>, Sammy. I know I am the reason <em>why</em> so much bad shit has <em>happened</em> to you. I know that I <strong>betrayed</strong> you—and I fucked us up … and I … I fuck <em>everything</em> up … I <strong>know</strong>, okay?”</p><p>Sam seems to finally connect to what Dean is suggesting, ‘cause he gets this little <em>hitch</em> in his throat and his muscles lock-up for a second—before he starts <strong>rapidly</strong> shaking his head.</p><p>“You think … <em>God … </em>Dean … I <strong><em>lost</em></strong> her! Hell, I just lost <strong>everything</strong>! And <strong><em>that’s</em></strong> what you wanna <strong>give</strong> me? You wanna be my <strong><em>consolation</em></strong> prize?! Like <strong>last</strong> time?! Is <em>that</em> it?! You wanna lay under me, the way you laid under, <em>Dad?!”</em></p><p>Dean winches—as all those fucked-up memories of brutalization—<em>of sheer agonized pain</em>—come pouring back in and Dean panics. He is on his feet, now, that Sammy is on his. And backing away—‘cause he <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> do this, again.</p><p>The <strong>pain</strong> last time … the <em>humiliation</em> … it was, too, much.</p><p>Dean thinks about what he just said—<em>what he just offered, Sam</em>—and he fucking <strong>hates</strong> himself for it.</p><p>‘Cause the second that same look from <em>‘that,’</em> night—<em>their last night</em>—shines in Sammy’s eyes, Dean, feels his stomach turn inside-out. Feels his heartbeat pattering like this hard-ass <strong>drum</strong> … and he knows he <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> do this, again.</p><p>It took him several <em>months</em> and all Bobby’s patience to get over the <strong><em>last</em></strong> time …</p><p>He shouldn’t have <strong>offered</strong>, but Dean is desperate—<em>feels useless</em>—and just wants to help Sammy any <em>way</em> he can.</p><p>But this cornered-animal that’s locked inside his psyche, is telling him to run—<em>to hide</em>—to bury his head in the proverbial sand and friggin’ <strong><em>stay</em></strong> there.</p><p><em>“I’m sorry … I’m sorry … I didn’t mean it that way, Sammy … I could never … I can <strong>never</strong> replace her … I don’t wanna try an’ replace <strong>anyone</strong> … I know I’m nothing … I’m less than nothing to you now … I know that … I know … I can’t … Don’t make it hurt again … please, Sammy … I won’t try … I won’t <strong>try</strong>!”</em> Dean has backed himself into the nearest corner.</p><p>He can hear these uncharacteristically <em>babbled-out</em> words coming from his mouth, and can feel his arms raised in an attempt to <strong>shield</strong> himself from Sammy’s rage <em>(if it comes out)</em> though doesn’t remember <strong>actively</strong> deciding to do <em>any</em> of it … to behave <strong><em>this</em></strong> way.</p><p>Dean has been trying to act <em>‘cool,’</em> and perfect around Sam these past days—but this is the first time that Dean has cracked that façade and gone back to this dark—<em>walled-up place in his head.</em></p><p> Sam is still<em> (mostly) </em>across the room when Dean opens his eyes, again. Gaping at him with this look of bewilderment, like Dean’s just gained two-heads or <em>something</em>.</p><p>Lowering his hands, Dean, clears his throat and wipes his eyes—trying to save face, here …</p><p>
  <em>“I mean … um …” But words won’t come …</em>
</p><p>“What the hell <em>was</em> that, Dean?” Sammy demands, stepping a couple feet towards, Dean—and Dean instinctively backs up and hits this damn <strong>corner</strong> he’s backed himself into, <em>again.</em></p><p>Dean <strong>still</strong> doesn’t know what Sammy is gonna do—how Sammy is gonna <em>behave</em> … this is <strong>new</strong> territory between them.</p><p>Sammy mourning a <em>dead</em> lover …</p><p>Sure, Sammy, mourned, <em>Dean,</em> but Dean was never <strong>dead</strong> …</p><p>“Are you <em>afraid</em> of me?” Sam pushes for an answer and keeps coming until they are face to face—<em>barely an inch apart.</em></p><p>Dean closes his eyes with a little simper—as Sammy primes his hands <strong>against</strong> Dean’s broad chest.</p><p>Sammy’s touch, damn-near <em>burns</em> through this fabric … Scorches him from the <strong>inside</strong> out …</p><p>Dean adverts his eyes, avoiding, Sammy’s red-puffed, brownish-green ones in the process—<em>and doesn’t say a word.</em></p><p>“Is that why you’ve been <strong><em>pinching</em></strong> yourself, again?”</p><p>Sammy reaches for his hand and—<em>before Dean can stop him</em>—hoists it up, peeling back the slightly <strong>bloodied</strong> sleeve.</p><p>Sammy’s whole body goes motionless when he spots the thin-ridged scar that runs up the length of Dean’s left-wrist.</p><p>Dean tries <em>(futilely)</em> to retract his arm, by reaching up his other but Sam only grips this <strong>new</strong> hand and shoves that sleeve up, too.</p><p>When, Sam, sees the other vertical scar running up the length of Dean’s wrist to the crook of his arm-bend—Sam, glances back up at him with this questioning look in his eyes, which has Dean’s stomach in friggin’ knots.</p><p>This <strong><em>can’t</em></strong> be happening … not now …<em> not yet …</em></p><p>“Dean …” Sammy keeps Dean’s wrist gripped while he runs his thumb against the rough-textured length of Dean’s scarred-up forearm. “What the <strong><em>hell</em></strong> is this …?”</p><p>Dean wants to crawl in a hole—<em>wants to stay there for the rest of his <strong>life</strong></em>—and he never wants Sammy to look at him <strong>this</strong> way, ever again.</p><p>Swallowing around this newly developing lump in his throat, Dean, breathes through a sniffle and shudders.</p><p>“It … It’s <em>nothin,’</em> Sammy,” Dean tries to yank his arm free, but Sam tightens his grip, keeping his hold.</p><p>“There’ve always been <strong>cuts</strong> … but … but what is <strong><em>this</em></strong>, Dean?! What <strong><em>is</em></strong> this?!” Sam is yelling, now—and Dean doesn’t think that Sam is even <em>aware</em> that he’s doing it.</p><p>
  <em>God …</em>
</p><p>This is why he’d intended to keep his <strong>scars</strong> a carefully-guarded secret, from Sammy. If there is one thing that, Sammy, <em>can’t</em> do it is handle the <strong><em>truth</em></strong> behind what happened … and <strong>why</strong> it happened …</p><p>Dean still hates himself for what he did—<em>will always hate himself for it</em>—and would probably do it, <strong>again</strong> … if it weren’t for, Dad, being, <em>‘God-Knows-Where,’</em> and Sam needing him to be <strong>here</strong> … again.</p><p>Not to mention the countless lives, Dean, <strong><em>enjoys</em></strong> saving—<em>needs to save</em>—‘cause it’s what he freaking <strong>does</strong>, now …</p><p>
  <em>Save’s lives …</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s n—”</em>
</p><p>“Don’t say <strong>nothing</strong>! Don’t you <strong><em>dare</em></strong> say fucking <em>‘nothing,’</em> Dean!” Sam drops his wrist, now—<em>finally</em>—and uses both hands to pin, Dean, tight against this dingy corner of their motel room.</p><p>“Tell me the <em>truth</em>! Those <strong>weren’t</strong> there the night we …” Sam swallows and Dean clenches his teeth. “So, <em>when,</em> Dean? When did you … just, <em>when?!”</em></p><p>Dean counts to ten in his mind, forcing his breathing to calm itself and levels his eyes with Sam’s.</p><p><em>“That</em> <strong>night</strong> … I … I just didn’t wanna do it anymore, Sammy … I … I wanted it to <strong>end</strong> … all of this freaking <strong>pain</strong>, Man … and … and <em>losin’</em> you … knowin’ I’d truly, <strong><em>truly</em></strong> lost you … I … I <strong>couldn’t</strong> …” Dean wants to be strong, right now. The last thing he needs is to fall back to pieces—when Sammy should be the only one allowed to be in freaking <strong>pieces,</strong> tonight …</p><p>But … talking about it … it hurts so <strong>damned</strong> much—and he doesn’t want Sammy to blame himself, ‘cause this wasn’t on <em>him</em>. This was on, <em>Dean.</em></p><p><em>Dean</em> was the shit big brother … <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> was the one that cheated and <strong>lied</strong> to Sammy … <strong>Just</strong>, Dean …</p><p>Sammy’s eyes go wide and his expression turns ashy-white.</p><p>“You’d <em>already</em> lost me, Dean … why <strong>that</strong> night? Just, because … Was it what I said … what I <strong>did</strong> …?” Sam is stepping back in this cloud of disbelief—and Dean wants nothing more than to <em>comfort</em> him.</p><p>Dean wants Sammy in his arms—<em>under his skin</em>, even …</p><p>And, at the same time, Dean, also wants Sammy to be anywhere else—<em>but, <strong>here</strong></em>—staring down at the space where he slashed himself and bared his skin <strong>raw</strong>, all in the name of letting Sammy live a normal friggin’ life … without <em>him</em> around to interfere … and escaping, Dad, and his <strong>hatefulness</strong>.</p><p>Dean won’t let Sammy blame himself for the fucked-up thing that he did to himself, when it was all <em>(mostly)</em> something he’d done ‘cause of, <strong>Dad</strong>—and ‘cause of how worthless he’s always felt inside.</p><p>“Nothing I say, you’d <strong>believe</strong> … an’ I ain’t gonna make tonight about <strong>me</strong>, Sammy. I just wanna make sure <em>you’re</em>, okay. That’s all,” Dean is finally able to pull himself together <em>(enough to stop this onset of panic that just swept over him)</em> and try to shove it all back down—<em>like he’s been doing, since his attempt.</em></p><p>Sammy’s eyes are shadowed with a mixture of guilt and sorrow, which is having this immense effect on Dean’s currently shredded insides.</p><p>“You’re really <strong><em>not</em></strong> gonna tell me? You’re just gonna … keep it a damn <strong>secret</strong>? Like you <em>always</em> keep these secrets?” Sam breathes back and squeezes Dean’s wrist <em>(the one still gripped tight in his hold)</em> and Dean jumps—from the <strong>shock</strong> of the sudden pressure.</p><p>Dean knows that Sammy won’t <em>believe</em> the truth—won’t listen to it, after all the <em>lies</em>, Dean, has told all along. After all, Sammy, still thinks Dean was <strong><em>mugged</em></strong> and Dean is gonna keep it that way—especially with what Sammy is already going through in his head and his <em>heart</em>, tonight.</p><p>The last thing, Sammy, needs is to be dragged into all of Dean’s <em>psychological</em>, shit.</p><p>“What <strong>good</strong> would it do, Sammy? You’re upset … and you’re grievin’ and you want me to <strong>what</strong>? Rehash our past in <strong>full</strong>? To what end? Will it make you <em>love</em> me, again? Will it help ease the pain of losin’ that <em>wonderful</em> girl you loved, to the same thing that got, Mom?” Dean reasons, trying to beat his way through Sammy’s thick skull.</p><p>God … Dean, wants to break down into smithereens in Sammy’s arms and tell him the truth of <em>why</em> he did it—all these truths that haunt him and will <strong>continue</strong> to haunt him until the day he dies … but to what <em>freaking</em> end?</p><p>One of the muscles in Sammy’s jaw tweaks as he works the muscle, there, clearly frustrated—but Dean has become a master at avoiding things he doesn’t want to … and yeah, Sammy, made him lose his head for a minute … but it was <strong>just</strong> for a minute …</p><p>This rejection, <em>(almost-turned-brutal), </em>has reminded him that this isn’t a way he can fix, Sammy, again …</p><p>Sammy isn’t fixable, this time around.</p><p>Sammy, <em>isn’t, <strong>Dad</strong>.</em></p><p>And, Dean, has to keep reminding himself of that.</p><p>“You think I could ever stop loving you, Dean? You think I haven’t tried like fucking hell to stop? To make these feelings that have been inside of me since I can <strong>remember</strong>, go away? Is that <strong><em>really</em></strong> what you think, Dean?” Sammy says all of this so fast, that Dean’s mind can’t even register it all …</p><p>The phrases about love are like this solely pertinent thing in Dean’s head, right now. Hell, Dean, can practically <em>feel</em> his heart almost stopper-off in his chest—<em>and to his utter shame</em>—feels his cock react with a pulse in these too-tight jeans he’s got on.</p><p>Dean is so damn stunned that he can’t even find the words to respond, before Sammy is talking again.</p><p>“If I could hate you, then all of this would be so much <em>goddamned</em> easier!”</p><p>Sammy flashes, Dean, one last wounded stare before he storms into the bathroom and locks it with a click.</p><p>Dean can hear the sound of Sammy heaving into the toilet, his weak stomach getting the best of him, and Dean’s heart tugs and aches as he is forced to listen to this …</p><p>Dean goes and settles on the edge of his hotel bed in a state of shock, despite the heaves from his brother in the other room … <em>and he experiences this renewed flicker of hope …</em></p><p>He feels like a downright <em>monster</em> for even thinking this—but for the first time since their <em>final</em> night, Dean, actually has this tiny iota of hope that they <strong>might</strong> be able to <em>have</em> something again—to rekindle this love they once shared so <strong>freely</strong>.</p><p><em>Someday</em> … whenever this <em>haunting</em> picture of Jess plastered on the ceiling, tonight, is no longer like a cataclysm in <em>both</em> their memories.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. part 12; oasis of shadowy truth.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>In the aftermath of Sam losing, Jess, Sam and Dean navigate cases while simultaneously searching for Dad and trying to work out their touch and go (lingering) feelings for one another.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Takes place over the course of approximately 8 months.<br/>(covers the time between episodes 2-16 of season 1.)</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i> Hello Lovelies!<br/>First off, I would like to apologize for the very lengthy delay between this installment and the last, it has been a rough couple of weeks for me in real life, and also I have been trying to work out the best way to tackle this fiction (with regards to canon) and that has been a little bit of a challenge for me, so I apologize, wholeheartedly for leaving you all hanging, as it were, it was not my intention at all! Every part is going to cover a lot of episodes and the narrative may skip around a lot (from here on out) but I do have a plan for this, and it is gonna be enjoyable, I promise! So, bear with me while I figure out exactly how to tackle it the way I want to. I still have quite a few surprises coming, so hang in there guys! I will try to update more frequently in the future, but it is all gonna depend on my muse and writer's block, so, just be aware that even if it does take a while sometimes, that I am NOT abandoning this work! It is my favorite, to date and I really want to finish it! So, tell me what you think in the comments! <br/>Until next time, ENJOY! <br/>xxxxxxx</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 12; oasis of shadowy truth.</em>
  </strong>
</p><hr/><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>When sadness was the sea</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You taught me how to swim.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxviii. somewhere dark shadows &amp; ache linger.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Every time, Sam, closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of, Jess—<em>plastered up on their bedroom ceiling</em>—horrified and staring down at him with this plea in her eyes for help …</p><p>
  <em>God …</em>
</p><p>Sam can’t <strong><em>stop</em></strong> seeing her—<em>everywhere.</em></p><p>It’s been a full two weeks since she died and, Sam, is still no closer to her killer—<em>to Dad</em>—or to feeling even a semblance of relief from all this deeply-embedded guilt that is now housed in his soul.</p><p>There is so much buried inside of him—like this goddamned <strong><em>ocean</em></strong> of emotion. And Sam can’t keep listening to it all up here … in his head.</p><p>It is making him <strong><em>crazy</em></strong>.</p><p>After their conversation <em>(after Sam found the deep gouge-like scars embedded deep across the surface of both Dean’s wrists on up his arms)</em> Dean, has stayed tight-lipped about it.</p><p>About what <em>actually</em> drove him to do it.</p><p>There are these little flickers in Dean’s green eyes that are like light and purpose … that come and then they go away, again.</p><p>Sam always feels this prominent stir in his heart that’s triggered whenever he thinks about what could’ve possibly drove, Dean, into such a dark inescapable place that he’d felt that <em>that</em> was all he could do …</p><p>Sam, never once even considered the possibility that Dean might choose to end his life … that Dean wasn’t strong enough to withstand <em>living without him …</em></p><p>Dean has always been like this superhero—<em>this role model</em>—to Sam. His big brother … able to crush <em>anything</em> that dared to threaten either one of them. Always able to just turn <em>everything</em> off and carry on, no matter the circumstance.</p><p>Even, when Sam chose to leave Dean and run off to Stanford, Sam’s ideal regarding Dean’s nature has never altered.</p><p>And Sam never once thought about what his leaving that night might’ve <strong><em>done</em></strong> to, Dean … the deep toll it might’ve taken …</p><p>Now … Sam can’t <em>stop</em> thinking about it.</p><p>These past two weeks he has been replaying that night, over and over in his mind, <em>(when his mind isn’t tortured by Jess that is)</em> trying to sus out, what he did to <strong>trigger</strong> this darkness in Dean—and Sam always sees the way he hurt, Dean …</p><p>The way he belittled and <strong><em>demeaned</em></strong> him, just to take him down a peg … just to make Dean hurt like <em>he</em> had been hurting all that time. And Sam feels all this damn shame about being so bitter and cruel, that night.</p><p>About, <em>everything …</em></p><p>And there are so many freaking questions that Sam has rattling around in his skull, so many that he keeps seeing his last night with, Dean, while simultaneously thinking about <em>(and grieving)</em> Jess. Which ultimately has made it so he can’t catch barely a wink of sleep, without jerking awake, riddled by nightmares.</p><p>Sam is torn—torn because Dean won’t be <em>straight</em> with him about any of this shit from their past.</p><p>And, because, whenever Sam has <strong>tried</strong> to bring this up, Dean, has been dodgy and either cracks a joke or finds a way to brush it off.</p><p>Which is exceedingly <em>frustrating</em> in and of itself.</p><p>Dean never <em>used</em> to be like this—well not <strong><em>this</em></strong> bad anyway.</p><p>Sure, Dean, has always had this knack for brushing things aside, but he’s never been so infuriatingly cavalier about anything, before.</p><p>But brushing things off has been fairly effortless for Dean these past two weeks, considering that Dad sent them on a wild goose chase. The coordinates in Dad’s journal led to the middle of the woods—to a freaking Wendigo—and Dad was nowhere in sight.</p><p>With no Dad (and no leads to his whereabouts) Dean found them another case, regarding a vengeful lake spirit, but still … Sam wants to find, Dad, and the thing that killed Mom—killed Jess.</p><p>Ultimately, Sam, has no idea what to think about their past, since Dean just keeps brushing it all off, and delving headfirst into the last two cases, instead of focusing on, Dad, like they should be.</p><p>Burying any and all of his emotions in the <strong><em>work</em></strong> …</p><p>Which must be nice, since, all Sam is able to do is keep replaying all of this horror in his head which is making him a freaking headcase!</p><p>And then there is Dean’s eating. Dean seems to eat <em>everything</em> and <strong>anything</strong>, he can. Scarfs it down like it’s not gonna be there for longer than a <em>minute</em>, which is downright disturbing to say the least.</p><p>Sam can’t remember a time when Dean ever ate so <em>rabidly</em>, before, and he doesn’t rightly know what to make of it, if he’s being honest with himself.</p><p>Sam has no idea how to ask Dean about his new eating habits, so he hasn’t. He’s still working out the <em>‘how,’</em> of it.</p><p>Which brings him full circle back to what happened <em>earlier …</em></p><p>This afternoon, was the <strong><em>last</em></strong> straw.</p><p>Sam confronted, Dean, about finding Dad, about the scars on his wrists, and about their past <em>… again …</em></p><p>And Dean shut down, downplayed it all, and headed out to do <em>God-Knows-What</em> … and hasn’t come back, since.</p><p>Sam is sitting here, on this motel mattress flipping through channels on the shitty-ass motel tv <em>(and it’s been about five hours now)</em> still wondering where Dean is, and how they are <strong>ever</strong> gonna get past any of this, if Dean keeps acting this way.</p><p>Sam wonders if they even <strong><em>can</em></strong> at this point.</p><p>Here he was, living a comfortable life, with plans to marry Jess and become a defense lawyer and now … now, Sam, can’t even fathom <em>anything</em> except getting justice for the woman he loves—and understanding the <em>why</em> behind what has actually been going on with Dean all these years, and most of all, what finally convinced Dean to end everything with Dad.</p><p>That sick thing between Dean and Dad went on for years (according to Dad) and yet … something convinced Dean to try to end his life and cease all sexual interactions with Dad.</p><p>Sam wonders if he ever even <em>knew</em> his brother, at all.</p><p>The more he thinks about the way things were <em>(even when they were little)</em> … the less any of it <strong>actually</strong> makes sense.</p><p>The lies … the withheld truths … the <em>touches</em> …</p><p>God … <em>the touches!</em></p><p>Sam shivers as he goes as far back in his mind as he can—and remembers that Dean and his warm, calloused fingertips rubbing circles under his, hand-me-down, t-shirt is one of his very <strong>first</strong> memories. One of the first things he can even remember about being <em>alive</em>.</p><p>And Sam just remembers feeling safe and protected in those arms …  in <strong><em>Dean’s</em></strong> arms …</p><p>
  <em>(Same as he did on the lawn of his burning house, two weeks ago.)</em>
</p><p>Back when it was just <strong>them</strong> … <strong><em>them</em></strong> against the whole damned world.</p><p>Sam stares over at the bedside alarm clock and reads the digital numbers. It’s almost <em>eleven</em> at night and Dean <strong>still</strong> hasn’t come back.</p><p>Sam wonders if he is even <em>gonna</em> come back.</p><p>Hell, Dean, has every imaginable reason not to … Sam has been moody and on edge, mostly because he lost Jess but also because Dean won’t <strong><em>talk</em></strong> to him—<em>won’t help him understand what he’s missing here …</em></p><p>Suddenly, it hits Sam that he never actually <em>listened</em> to any of the voicemails on his old phone. Hell, he hasn’t turned the damn thing on in four <strong><em>years</em></strong>, so there is no telling how many there are … or when the last one was even <em>left</em> <em>…</em></p><p>It survived the fire, though, because it was still in his pocket when Dean dragged him out, that night.</p><p>Rising to his feet, Sam, heads over to the table where he left his duffle, riffles through locating the phone and charger, and takes it into the bathroom with him.</p><p>Closing the door, he clicks the lock and plugs it in, waiting for it to charge enough to even boot up.</p><p>The wait is agonizing but Sam is finally able to get the thing to load-up after about five minutes of bouncing his knee against the wall, while settled on the floor, next to the shower, across from the sink.</p><p>When it does launch two new voicemails pop up <em>(on top of the several that he never listened to in the first place)</em> and Sam takes a deep breath, lifts the phone to his ear—<em>and listens.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>The longer Dean is with Sam the harder things are becoming.</p><p>Dean adopted this attitude about things, in order to keep himself in check, without Sam.</p><p>Dad and him had a fairly steady <em>routine (just before Dad disappeared anyway)</em> where they would set out on a hunt, sleep in their separate beds, take out whatever was doing the killings—and carry on to the next freaking thing.</p><p>Well … all that time spent with Dad had Dean forgetting what it was actually like to be with Sammy.</p><p>Sammy and his <strong><em>questions</em></strong>—Sammy and his <strong><em>neediness</em></strong> … just Sammy being<em>,</em> <em>Sammy,</em> even.</p><p>Dean forgot how freaking hard it always used to be for him to keep his composure where Sammy was involved.</p><p>Sammy always has this friggin’ manner about him, where he can just pry and pry until Dean breaks down and gives him whatever it is that he wants … <em>and</em> <em>God-help-him</em> <em>…</em> Dean <strong>always</strong> breaks down.</p><p>Tonight, Dean, almost cracked and broke for, Sammy, like he used to.</p><p>That’s why he had to get the hell outta their motel room.</p><p>Why he is currently shoving his feet into his hunting boots, while some pretty young thing <em>(whose name he can’t remember, but he just had about fifty-ways to Sunday)</em> is passed out on the mattress behind him, snoring away.</p><p>All of this fucking guilt is packed into his insides. Boiling away, right now, as he thinks about his own shamelessness.</p><p>After arguing with Sammy—and coming pretty damn close to telling Sammy the truth about shit—Dean headed straight for the nearest bar. Drank until every girl in the place looked perfectly suitable, and took one back to her home.</p><p>Dean can smell the linger of her candy-scented perfume on his brown leather-jacket. Can taste her cherry lip-gloss still like a scorch on his lips in reminder of their relations. And like always, Dean, can’t feel it—<em>not properly</em>—‘cause that’s just how shit is for him now. But that’s not what makes this the <strong><em>most</em></strong> wrong <em>(even though it should) </em>the thing that makes this whole encounter, purely <em>wrong</em>, is that the whole time he was balls-deep inside of her, he was thinking about Sammy.</p><p>Sweet, pliable … <em>needy</em> … Sammy.</p><p>And how that used to feel … how hot, tight, <em>fuckable</em> Sammy used to feel …</p><p>That ache is always like a stone in him, now. It was easier to ignore, when Sammy was just <em>gone</em> … but now Sammy is with him, all the damn time, and giving him, these looks that could be curiosity, could be fucking <em>hate and loathing</em> for all Dean knows … and it’s too <strong><em>damn</em></strong> much.</p><p>Just, too, much.</p><p>Standing up, Dean, throws the pretty sleeping blond one last amicable glance over his shoulder, collects Baby’s keys from his pocket and heads out—<em>back to Sammy.</em></p><p>Back to friggin’ <strong><em>hell</em></strong>.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Dean finds Sammy seated on his own mattress as he comes through the door. Head in his hands, with his shoulders shaking, between little sobs.</p><p>Dean’s gut wrenches and he closes the door with a little, <em>‘click,’</em> behind him. Tossing Baby’s keys onto the nearby table, Dean, hesitates a moment<em> (thinking about leaving Sammy be) </em>but his protective <em>‘Big-Brother,’</em> instincts kick in and won’t allow him to simply <em>ignore</em>, Sammy, when he’s like this.</p><p>So, Dean, crosses the room and squats in front of him.</p><p>That is when Dean notices the four-year-old cell phone that he remembers purchasing Sammy right before Sammy left him, for good.</p><p>“Sammy?” Dean clears his throat. Trying to ignore the dull ache that is gouging its roots into his chest.</p><p>Dean wants to reach out and touch Sammy—<em>it’s pure instinct</em>—but decides against it, ‘cause he doesn’t know what these tears are actually about … they could have nothing to do with that old phone and the messages Dean forgot about … they could have to do with <em>Jess</em> …</p><p>Sam sniffles, wipes his face off with the back of his hand and swallows thickly in his throat.</p><p>“Y-You don’t … you don’t h-have to … to t-tell me a-<em>anything</em>, D-De …” Sammy whispers and his voice cracks in this heartbreaking way that has Dean’s stomach churning all the sudden.</p><p>Dean is trying to suppress this sudden rise in his own emotions—<em>trying to contain himself</em>—but it’s really friggin’ difficult with Sammy looking at him like this.</p><p>These soft, leafy-green eyes with tired tears in them … well, it is causing him to feel this—<em>all of this</em>—unreservedly. And this is the first Dean’s felt a damn thing, all night since he walked out that door …</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout, Sammy-Sam?” Dean asks, cautiously. Remembering (through his slight buzz) how Sam shouted at him earlier, tonight. Insisting that the lies can’t continue—<em>and that includes withheld truths, too.</em></p><p>“I broke you, D-Dean … I … I <em>did</em> t-this …” Sammy is reaching out and before Dean can stop him. Shoving up the sleeves of Dean’s leather jacket, only to brush his thumbs against these damn scars Dean will always <em>have</em> <em>(as sorry reminders)</em> etched there.</p><p>Dean does pull his wrists back, now, trying to stop these clenching <em>(awful)</em> sensations that are taking even deeper root in his stomach. Pinching and squeezing <em>just</em> inside …</p><p>“No … C’mon, Sammy … this … this wasn’t ‘cause of you, alright?” Dean is frantic to tell a lie here—to make Sammy <strong>believe</strong> it, too, ‘cause Dean never wants Sammy to know that he was willing to wipe himself off the board—<em>just for Sammy’s sake.</em></p><p>So that Sammy could be <strong>normal</strong>—and not have to worry about Dean getting in the way.</p><p>There was <em>(of course)</em> more to it than that, but it was one of Dean’s reasons … though his second reason was far worse.</p><p>And Sammy wouldn’t believe it, <strong>anyway</strong>.</p><p>“I listened to the voicemails you left me, De … I heard the quiver in your voice … the <strong>tears</strong> …” Sam admits. “You were hurtin’ because of <em>how</em> I left … and you <strong>said</strong> things … things about keepin’ me safe. Like you <strong>always</strong> have … but … but it wasn’t like I <em>thought</em>, was it? You said you were trying to keep <strong><em>Dad</em></strong> away from me … Is that … is that <em>true?”</em></p><p>Dean’s heart almost halts in his chest.</p><p>This is the question he’s always dreaded coming out of Sammy’s mouth—and he wants to hurl, just from hearing it.</p><p>Dean doesn’t remember much about what he said in those voicemails, if he is being honest.</p><p>He can recall being beside himself—<em>miserable</em>—and willing to say <strong><em>anything</em></strong> <em>(anything at all)</em> to get Sammy to <strong><em>just</em></strong> hear him out.</p><p>Though, at the same time, Dean, can also remember meaning every word he said. But he always thought, Sammy, listened to those voicemails … and ignored them … Not that he’d never heard them. Period.</p><p>One thing that, Dean, knows for damn sure, is that Dad never had the opportunity to pursue Sammy in the same way that he did him.</p><p>Dean never would’ve allowed it—<em>and still wouldn’t, today.</em></p><p>“Sammy—”</p><p>“This shit has to end, Dean. The freaking <strong><em>lies</em></strong> between us! I just wanna know the truth! For once, alright?” Sam changes on a dime, whisking away his tears Dean sees him try to shove down these emotions enough to speak plainly—<em>clearly.</em></p><p>“I deserve to know the <strong>truth</strong>!” Sam persists.</p><p>And Dean can’t argue with what Sammy says. Sammy does deserve the truth—all of it. But, God … Dean wishes this didn’t have to come out, right now.</p><p>Dean fights down a few rising waves of sick in his throat and teeters right on the brink of insanity, as he forces his legs to rise and support him.</p><p>‘Cause if this is gonna happen … if he is gonna tell Sammy the truth … then it can’t happen when he’s less than a foot away from Sammy’s face and half-ready to <em>climb</em> into Sammy’s <strong>bed</strong>.</p><p>Dean still smells like that nameless woman for Christsakes!</p><p>“Alright, Sam! Alright!” Dean mutters out with a few unstable breaths.</p><p>“What I did with, Dad … I … I don’t do <em>that</em> no more,” Dean starts. Wanting to make it very clear that all of <strong><em>that</em></strong> fuckery is truly in the past where it belongs.</p><p>Sam pipes up, “Since <em>when</em>, Dean?”</p><p>“Since, the last night <em>we …”</em> Dean cuts himself off and breaks eye contact with Sam.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Since you made <em>those</em> scars?” Dean notices Sammy’s eyes traveling to his wrists <em>(even though the scars are hidden under his leather Dean feels like they are bare, front and center …)</em> then back up to search Dean’s face.</p><p>“Yeah, Sammy. I … What <em>you</em> did—” Sammy winces and Dean clears his throat, “—it helped me <strong>remember</strong> some things … some things I’d repressed.”</p><p>This peaks Sammy’s interest and he raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? <em>What</em> things?”</p><p>Dean pinches his wrist. Grounding himself here in reality.</p><p>“Things that <em>Dad</em> did.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t wanna tell him. He isn’t altogether certain what Sammy would even do with this information and he knows for a fact that Sammy doesn’t need this weight burdening him, especially not right now.</p><p>Sammy has so much shit in his head that he still has to deal with. Dean’s problems shouldn’t be up there, too.</p><p>It is apparent that Sammy sees things differently, though.</p><p>“Tell me what you remembered, Dean.” Sam has this hurt look in his eye, but that isn’t what makes Dean’s blood chill to ice—it is the way Sammy is so evidently <em>hurting</em> right now … <em>suffering …</em></p><p>“Dad he …” Dean closes his eyes and two tears track down his cheeks, “… I was never <strong>mugged</strong>, Sammy,” he finally admits.</p><p>Sam looks confused at first. Then, his eyebrows unfurl and an expression of white-shock spreads across his face.</p><p>“Are you <em>saying …?”</em></p><p>Dean nods his head. “We were late, Sammy … Remember? Baby’s air needed fixin’ an’ we didn’t get back on time … an’ you know how Dad <em>hated</em> it whenever we were late …”</p><p>“I remember, Dean,” Sammy’s eyes are <em>angry</em> all the sudden ... livid, actually. And Dean feels his stomach turn over inside of him.</p><p>“So, Dad, beat you <em>senseless</em> for it? And he …” Sam takes in a breath of air and squeezes his eyes.</p><p>“I remember him beating me unconscious … but I guess … I guess I wasn’t unconscious I just shut it out an’ I … I had an accident … and Dad he … he was so angry ‘bout it … an’ he wanted to teach me a lesson …”</p><p>Sam’s jaw locks up tight and Dean hates how this is all making him feel.</p><p>“He <em>raped</em> me, <em>after</em> he beat me …” Dean finally lets the words fall out. Even though they feel strange on his tongue. Like this foreign freaking substance—but they <strong><em>are</em></strong> the truth.</p><p>Dad <em>raped</em> him.</p><p>Bobby said so … and Dean has always known it—<em>deep down</em>—but never wanted to face it, head-on. Not since <strong><em>that</em></strong> night … that night this all became <strong><em>too</em></strong> much for him … too freaking <strong>real</strong> … and he did confront, Dad, using those same words … and it—<em>everything</em>—went to shit.</p><p>When Dean meets Sammy’s eyes, again, they are filled to the brim with unshed tears.</p><p>“And these voicemails?” Sam picks up the phone. “Did, Dad … did he try and … and rape <em>me</em>, too?”</p><p>Dean shakes his head immediately.</p><p>“No, Sammy. I … I told him I’d do <em>whatever</em> he wanted … whatever he <em>needed</em> me to, but <strong><em>you</em></strong> were off limits. I … I never caught him tryin’ <strong>anything</strong>, but I didn’t want him to get any ideas, neither.”</p><p>Sammy wipes at his teary eyes and sniffles.</p><p>“So, all this time … all this time I thought you …” Sam scoffs and rubs his eyes, “I actually <em>believed</em> that you wanted it … wanted <strong>him</strong> …”</p><p>Dean twists his fingers in his leather jacket pocket and shakes his head. “Truth is, Sammy … I … I’ve never been able to <em>feel</em> with anyone else … It’s all <strong>empty</strong>—”</p><p><em>“Hollow,”</em> Sam whispers and Dean glances up, questioningly. “You said so in one of your voicemails.” Sam explains.</p><p>Dean remembers that, vaguely, but the years haven’t been especially kind to him or his memories. Dean doesn’t remember everything, as vividly as he once did. Some things are like a paradox in his head.</p><p>Some memories of Dad and Sammy are part of that paradox.</p><p>“Look, Kiddo …” Dean feels his stomach squeeze when he calls Sammy that outta instinct, like he usually does, but keeps going, anyway, “I’m just trying to get you through this the <em>best</em> way I know how. I know you wanna be at college—and I know you just wanna get your revenge for Jessica. I ain’t stupid, Sammy. I know you want no part of me, <em>that way</em> anymore. So, I see no point in rehashing all of this. It’s dead and over-with. <em>End of story.” </em></p><p>
  <em>(Dean knows at least <strong>part</strong> of what he’s saying isn’t true, but hopes it will give Sammy the out he should be looking for, right about now.)</em>
</p><p>Sammy gives him this look and it’s the sorta look that could strip Dean to the bone with hurt, or shoot him to the skies into heaven, but either way, the way Sammy is looking at him is making him suddenly <strong>hot</strong> and <em>uncomfortable</em>.</p><p>Dean clears his throat and runs his fingers through his hair.</p><p>“I’m gonna get some air, okay? I just <em>need</em> to get some air …” Dean can feel the start of a panic, coming on—and he doesn’t wanna breakdown in front of, Sammy, right now.</p><p>Heading for the door, Dean, is one step from his escape when Sammy is suddenly behind him—<em>right at his back</em>—pushing a flat palm against their motel door. Re-slamming it shut, again, before Dean can even open it by half.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>“Sammy …” Dean pivots slightly toward, Sammy, trying to avoid meeting his eyes, but Sammy isn’t having <em>that</em>, either.</p><p>With both hands, Sammy, grips Dean’s cheeks and their eyes lock.</p><p>“You don’t get to decide <strong><em>everything</em></strong> for me, Dean. And I’m so goddamned tired of you running <em>away</em> whenever shit gets serious, between us,” Sam says, which makes Dean’s gut clench, impossibly tight.</p><p>Sam drops his hands from Dean’s cheeks, but is standing close enough for Dean to smell his pine-scented body wash and hints of his tea-scented shampoo. Too close for Dean <strong><em>not</em></strong> to have to feel things he wishes he couldn’t still <em>feel</em> for Sammy.</p><p>“Sammy—”</p><p>“No, Dean. You should have <em>told</em> me what, Dad, did from the beginning! You shouldn’t have let me find out the way that I did, back then. Hiding it so I would think you wanted him, so that I’d believe the <em>lie</em> for all these years! And you shouldn’t have lied and snuck around for all the years that you did with, Dad, in the first damned place!”</p><p>“I wanted you to have a <em>normal</em> freakin’ life! I wanted you to have what you <em>wanted,</em> Sammy! Whatever that meant, I <em>tried</em> to make it happen!”</p><p>“Well, I haven’t <em>had</em> a normal life, Dean! Nothing about <strong>anything</strong> I was, when I lived <em>without</em> you was fucking normal! Absolutely <strong>none</strong> of it!”</p><p>“You had Jess—”</p><p>“And you know <strong>how</strong> I had her at night? When we were in bed together and it was just <em>us?”</em></p><p>Dean blinks a couple times, trying to stave off this continuous panic in his belly, as he’s suddenly forced to imagine Sammy and Jess all entwined together in the throes of passion—and he can’t verbally reply, ‘cause if he does, he thinks he might just <em>hurl.</em></p><p>Sammy pushes in close, until Dean is clad with his back against the wall and Sammy against his front—<em>their body-heat meshing</em>—same as last night.</p><p>“I had to ask <em>her</em> to be on top … to put on a strap-on and fuck me the way <strong><em>you</em></strong> used to, Dean. And she was so in love with me, and so fucking understanding, that she did it. And called me, <em>‘Sammy,’</em> while she did it, because I missed you so <strong><em>damn</em></strong> much … because I’ve fucking mourned <strong><em>us</em></strong> every night since I left you and Dad! So, don’t fucking tell me that I don’t <strong><em>want</em></strong> you! That the shadow of what we were for over <strong>half</strong> my damn life, hasn’t always Goddamned been here—<em>inside of me!</em> You don’t get to say that, De! You <strong><em>never</em></strong> get to say that!”</p><p>This sudden knowledge that Sammy had to ask for penetration while he was with, Jess, is both heartbreaking and all-together incomprehensible to him.</p><p>No matter how many times, Sam, blurts out that he will virtually always be in love with him, Dean, still has no clue what to do with this knowledge, or even how he should feel about it.</p><p>Sammy just lost this amazing woman that he was in love with. But even though, Sammy, was in a serious relationship with Jess he still claims to have thought about Dean the <em>entire</em> time.</p><p>“I know that you want me, Sammy,” Dean finally confesses, ‘cause if nothing else, Dean, is always gonna know that <strong><em>that</em></strong> is the God’s honest truth.</p><p>Sammy has clung to him since they were little freaking kids and it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise that Sammy still clung to the idea of them, even after Sammy chose to leave, that night.</p><p>Hell. Dean, can still vividly remember their last night, and how tortured Sammy was throughout … which is why Dean tried to permanently erase himself from the board in the first damn place.</p><p>“But I also know that you shouldn’t, okay?” Dean is trying to ignore the mounting tightness in his chest<em> (and an even more foreboding one in his crotch) </em>while he tries to explain himself. “And it’s not shameful to need penetration to get off, sometimes, even if it is with a toy …” Dean manages to somehow say without his voice trembling, like it so desperately <em>wants</em> to.</p><p>Sam’s eyes are shadowed with frustration, that has Dean all tied up in knots inside. This close proximity that they’re sharing is making Dean’s skin ache to be touched—<em>to be had by Sammy</em>—and the twist in his gut is beyond skin-deep, right now.</p><p>Tears are welling in Sam’s eyes all of the sudden, and Dean’s stomach reflexively clenches as his <em>‘Overprotective Big Brother,’</em> instincts start to kick in.</p><p>“You act like what you just told me changes nothing, Dean,” shaky words fall outta Sam’s lips, like hot little wisps of air—and Dean starts to feel his insides loosen.</p><p>Part of him wants to flee—wants to shove Sam away and storm outta their motel door—but another more powerful urge, screams at him to stay. Guide Sammy through the bombshells he’s just dropped on Sammy’s unwitting head.</p><p>Those voicemails he left were desperate little spiels for Sammy to <em>listen</em>. God only knows what he said …</p><p>He was so <em>damn</em> drunk … so weighed down with <strong><em>defeat</em></strong> that night <em>… and</em> <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> <em>…</em> Dean always thought Sammy ignored them … that Sammy didn’t care or believe them, not that he’d never heard them, at all …</p><p>Suddenly, he senses that everything is about to change. <em>Again.</em></p><p>And he doesn’t know if he can handle anymore change.</p><p>“It shouldn’t change a thing, Sammy. Like you said, I still snuck around with, Dad. All of the things Dad accused me of, did happen. An’ I’m still a shit big brother, that much hasn’t changed.”</p><p>“That’s where you’re wrong. <em>Everything</em> has changed, Dean,” Sam grips tight to Dean’s leather, making him feel the radiating heat from Sammy’s perfect skin.</p><p>Dean does his hardest to focus, even with the air, now, thinning between them.</p><p>“I don’t see how,” Dean persists, weakly.</p><p>“The things Dad did to you … the things you let him do to protect me … Dean … if anyone is a shit brother, it’s me. You went through <strong>hell</strong> an’ I never even knew about it. And that night … the last night we—” Sam chokes on his tears as they clog his airway. Cutting himself off.</p><p>“I really fucking <strong>hurt</strong> you, didn’t I?” Sam sniffles and Dean feels his shoulders tighten.</p><p><em>“Sammy …” </em>he wipes at Sammy’s tears as they fall, sensing the deep wounds that have opened inside of Sammy because of all this.</p><p>“I <strong>did</strong>. That’s why you cowered from me after Jess died. You’re afraid of what I’ll <em>do</em> to you …”</p><p>Dean hates how close to home, Sammy, is hitting. How good Sammy is at telling the things he is feeling. Dean doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like being so bare and open like an ache—<em>like a wound.</em></p><p>This is, too, much.</p><p>All of these emotions—<em>all of this pain that Sammy was never supposed to know about</em>—it’s all too much!</p><p>“You know, Dad, called me that night. The night you tried to … to end your life,” Sammy admits, stunning Dean.</p><p>His mind is making desperate attempts to comprehend what Sammy just said.</p><p>“What?” Dean swallows past a forming lump.</p><p>“He <em>did.</em> He left a message on my old phone, telling me what happened. I never got it, because, I never listened to the messages, but he <em>told</em> me to come back. That he thought you wouldn’t survive it <em>without</em> me. Dad’s a <strong>heartless</strong> bastard, but for some reason he <em>still</em> thought to call me.”</p><p>Dean can’t believe this. Can’t believe that Dad actually tried to get Sammy to go to him in the <em>hospital</em>. It just <strong>doesn’t</strong> connect.</p><p><strong><em>Won’t</em></strong> connect.</p><p>“I told him … when I … when I did it … I told him that I was settin’ you <em>both</em> free. That I … that you were better off <strong>without</strong> me …” Dean whispers with baited breath, still trying <em>(and failing)</em> to wrap his head around all of this.</p><p>It is a matter of seconds—<em>Dean barely has the words out</em>—and Sammy’s lips are on his. Tussling, tangling, delving against Dean’s own. Suckling on his cracked, pout—and surging this explosive heat all throughout, Dean’s whole damn body.</p><p>This burn manifests deep in Dean’s lower belly and rages into this all-consuming fire. This excruciatingly passionate give and take of heat. And Dean wants to fall into it—wants to just stop thinking and overthinking everything—<em>but he can’t.</em></p><p>Dean knows that Sammy is gonna go back to college once they locate, Dad, and gank the yellow-eyed thing that killed Mom and Jess.</p><p>And that is what gives Dean the ability to break away from this kiss and gasp for the air he so desperately needs to breathe.</p><p>“Sammy … <em>Sammy …</em> What’re you doin’?” Dean’s voice is going hoarse and his throat dry.</p><p>“When we do find, Dad, I’m gonna fucking <em>kill</em> him for what he did to you, De—for what he <strong>took</strong> from <strong>us</strong> … but tonight, I don’t wanna think about Jess or this pain … or <em>anything</em> … you’re my big brother … you <strong>always</strong> fix me …”</p><p>Sammy is kissing along the line of Dean’s neck with compulsive sucking sounds, that have Dean’s manhood twitching, and heart fit to burst outta his chest.</p><p>This isn’t fair! None of it is. ‘Cause Sammy knows that Dean would <em>never</em> say no to <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy …</p><p>Not when tears and brokenness are involved …</p><p>“Sammy—”</p><p><em>“<strong>Fix</strong> me,</em> <em>Dean …</em> like you used to …” Sammy pleads, then lowers his tone and whispers in Dean’s good ear, “Please …”</p><p>Dean’s knees buckle and almost give out, right here on the floor, but he finally gives in.</p><p>Sammy has left him with no other option, but to give.</p><p>Dean hasn’t done this in so long. He hasn’t been with a male since Sammy. And the familiarity of it, is gone from Dean.</p><p>He’s no longer used to the firm, bulk of biceps, or the taut stretch of abs, not to mention how friggin’ tall Sammy is, now.</p><p>Sammy’s not that needy, hormone-crazed kid like he used to be—he’s a <strong>man</strong>, now.</p><p>Hell, they <strong><em>both</em></strong> are.</p><p>“Just tonight. Alright, Kiddo?” Dean rushes out in this frenzy of emotion, that currently has him in its sights.</p><p>Dean is desperate not to get too attached, to Sammy, like last time. ‘Cause it is gonna be, too, difficult to pick up the pieces and carry on, if—<strong><em>when</em></strong><em>—</em>Sammy up and decides to hightail it back to college the instant all of this demon-crap is over.</p><p>So, he’s gonna have to compartmentalize, tonight. Lock it in a box in his head—and resolve to <strong>keep</strong> it there.</p><p>Sammy’s mouth forms a dense line, that has Dean thinking that Sammy just might disagree with him—but he doesn’t.</p><p>“Just tonight, De …” Sammy promises.</p><p>That’s all Dean needs to hear—and he lets his thoughts dwindle down to bits.</p><p>Instead, Dean, focuses on where to put his hands. Combing over the cotton of Sammy’s shirt, Dean, guides him back towards Sammy’s hotel bed, until they both wind up crashing down on top of it, in a tangle of mouths and limbs.</p><p>Their crotches brush together in a rough lunge and Dean is brought to whimpers as the first rush of real sensation—<em>in years</em>—floods all-throughout Dean’s body in waves.</p><p>Sammy lets out a keen in his throat and starts to wrangle Dean’s leather jacket, then his t-shirt off his body, revealing his upper-half to the cold room.</p><p>Dean is increasingly high on Sammy, in this moment. But he’s also vastly overwhelmed, ‘cause Sammy is currently able to see all of him.</p><p>These <em>aching</em> ripples of discourse spread up his spine, as he watches Sammy take in all these rather extensive differences.</p><p>He can’t help his shivers as Sammy brushes both hands up, along the bulk of his chest. Warm thumbs dragging against Dean’s nipple peaks.</p><p>There are these coarse damning scars, spread-out all-across his torso. Accompanied by equally revealing gouges which run up both his forearms from wrist to arm bend, on both sides.</p><p>The gentle greenish-brown in Sammy’s eyes soften, and Dean lets out a little noise when Sammy begins to kiss him all over. Leaving hot little wet-patches all over Dean’s anxious (evidently ruined) skin.</p><p>He’s more than a little bit desperate to duck and run—but knows he’s well-past being able to—and he tries to grow accustomed to Sammy’s sensitive side, again, instead.</p><p>Why is Sammy never repulsed by his skin? That’s a question that has stuck with, Dean, forever, mostly cause, Dean, knows that <strong><em>he</em></strong> is … repulsed by his own disgusting flesh.</p><p>
  <em>Completely. </em>
</p><p>Yet, <em>Sammy,</em> never is.</p><p>Sammy shoots him a familiar, <em>‘Sammy-smile,’</em> that has Dean’s stomach in knots in a second-flat.</p><p>He can hardly remember what it’s like to be this close to Sammy. To have his little brother, horny, needing, and flush up against him, like this.</p><p>It’s been so damn long since, Dean, has let a man touch him. This is all unfamiliar, now.</p><p>Yet, it’s also just like riding a bike. The varying traces of touch memory never really goes away.</p><p>“I <strong>need</strong> you, De … please …” Sammy squirms, same as he always did, after begging.</p><p>And Dean can feel the proof of Sammy’s need, right here. Tight, rigid—and digging him in the belly.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Sammy isn’t lying. His body needs this—needs something—and those words make Dean incredibly friggin’ hot.</p><p>Dean doesn’t even have to think about stripping, Sammy, ‘cause his hands are moving of their own volition. Stripping off the layers of Sam’s clothes, until they are in a heap on the motel carpet.</p><p>With gentle eyes, Dean, takes in the view. Allowing the differences of Sammy’s athletically inclined visage fully sink in. Sammy has tight, muscled pecs, and well-defined abs. There are scars in some places, but nothing like Dean’s.</p><p>Maybe, Sammy, still self-harms from time to time, but it nowhere near as often as Dean has been compelled to.</p><p>Jess was good for Sammy <em>(even if Sammy begs to differ to some degree)</em> and that much is proven by Sammy’s thriving physical state.</p><p>Dean senses a pang of regret sinking into his heart as he thinks about the part he played in Jess’s demise. Jess might still be here if Dean hadn’t of pulled Sammy away …</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>He absolutely, <em>can’t,</em> think about that, right now.</p><p>He’s made a promise to Sammy.</p><p>With both their skin bare and <em>keening</em> with purpose, Dean, ignores the varying degrees of panic that are threatening to take over his psyche, and instead clamors on top of Sammy. Stealing a kiss that only seems to magnify <em>both</em> of their underlying needs, all the more.</p><p>“You <em>need</em> me, huh, Sammy? How <em>bad?”</em> Dean teases, lightly. Using a hand to cup the base of Sammy’s throbbing need, while gently stroking up and down the length.</p><p>“F-Fuck!” Sammy arches and squirms. Seeking friction and resolve. But Dean just keeps lightly <strong>playing</strong> and teasing, against it. Keeping Sammy horny—<em>and on edge</em>—but unable to <strong>spill</strong> over it.</p><p>“That’s <strong>not</strong> an answer, Sammy-Sam,” Dean breathes out. He is desperate to <em>savor</em> this night. ‘Cause tomorrow everything is gonna go back to the way it was, and all they’re ever gonna have, is tonight.</p><p>
  <em>Here and now.</em>
</p><p>If there is one thing, Dean, has learned from these last couple years of loneliness, is that <em>nothing</em> lasts. Especially not <em>glorious</em> pleasure, like what Sammy can invoke in him.</p><p>Sammy is suddenly lifting his legs and spreading his thighs, accommodating Dean’s torso in-between. And Dean feels the weight of his own erection, clad up-against Sammy’s.</p><p>Dean is still <em>larger</em> than Sammy below the belt, even fully erect and it still feels remarkably <strong>strange</strong> to be smaller in stature than his little brother, but bigger in <em>‘that’</em> way.</p><p>Same as it has since Sammy <em>first</em> sprouted-up in height.</p><p>“I need it, <em>bad</em>, De. You know I’ve always hated it when you <em>tease</em> me,” Sammy whines, between baited breaths.</p><p>Yeah, Dean, <strong><em>does</em></strong> know that.</p><p>But this may-well be the last time he’ll ever be <strong>able</strong> to tease <em>his</em> Sammy and he wants to savor it—<em>savor this</em>—as much as he can.</p><p>Hell, Sammy, isn’t really and truly <strong><em>his</em></strong>, anymore, anyway.</p><p>This sense of belonging that Dean is feeling right now, is really just a residual familiarity, leftover from their childhood days of being intimate.</p><p>At least, that is what Dean <strong><em>needs</em></strong> to tell himself to survive tonight with his heart and soul completely intact.</p><p>“Alright, <em>alright,</em> Sammy-Sam,” Dean breathes, after Sammy assaults his lips with his own. Stealing a particularly <em>fiery</em> and <strong>tongue-tangling</strong> kiss.</p><p>Lining up his need, Dean, counts in his head in order to steady his riled nerves—<em>then thrusts in.</em></p><p>
  <em>Oh fuck!</em>
</p><p>Dean forgot just how good—<em>how <strong>complete</strong></em>—he feels when he is buried inside his little brother’s tightness …</p><p>
  <em>So, fucking good!</em>
</p><p>Dean melts on impact, feeling like his whole damn body just caved in on itself, with pleasure. It’s almost powerful enough to bring him to tears, but he fights the urge. Instead, he claims Sammy’s lips with his own, and swallows Sammy’s every tortured moan like they’re sustenance—<em>or what he needs to stay <strong>alive</strong>.</em></p><p>Dean forgot what it was like to actually <em>‘feel’</em> the inside of a warm, tight, space! How it is to actually have something <em>whole</em>, rather than <strong>empty</strong> and <em>hollow</em>.</p><p>Being with Dad, after Sammy left, couldn’t compare with this if it tried. Dad isn’t Sammy. <em>No one</em> is Sammy …</p><p>Every thrust, feels like explicit <strong><em>heaven</em></strong>. Every kiss, like floating in the clouds with the angels he no longer believes <em>exist</em>.</p><p>And the way Sammy is keening and leaking <em>slick</em> for him?! It’s screwing with Dean’s <strong>heart</strong>.</p><p>And suddenly Dean is letting, Sammy, <em>all the way in.</em> Letting himself <strong><em>feel</em></strong> this—<em>truly feel it</em>—and losing every wall and damn and freaking <em>collapsed bridge</em> that he’s put up in his mind to protect him from being obliterated when Sammy chooses to leave him, again, <em>collapse in on itself.</em></p><p>Dean thrusts against the tight, puckered rim of Sammy’s heat, and speeds up the strokes of his hand, in order to drive Sammy to his peak—<em>and he does</em>—in seconds.</p><p>Dean has to keep his mouth occupied <em>(kissing Sammy)</em> in order to keep from spewing embarrassing things, while he claims Sammy, for his own, again.</p><p>Dean fights to drive the images of Jess using a strap-on to pleasure, Sam, while whispering <em>‘Sammy’</em> into his ear.</p><p>This is all <strong><em>way</em></strong> too much!</p><p>After only a minute <em>(maybe less) </em>they are both spilling seed. He can feel the slick, <strong><em>stringy</em></strong> substance spraying his belly and abs, from below, as Sammy goes off in loud cries that morph into muffled tones.</p><p> Thrills travel throughout his entire body, as he desperately <strong>strains</strong> to catch his breath. Sammy is quivering and straining underneath him, while the last of the pleasure travels through both their bodies.</p><p>Sometime later, Dean, is curled at Sammy’s side with an arm lazily slung over Sammy’s waist.</p><p>A <em>million</em> conflicting thoughts keep rushing through Dean’s mind, while he lays here.</p><p>The most prominent one, being whether or not he is gonna be able to just <strong><em>pack</em></strong> this experience back away, again.</p><p>Dean has been desperate to find a way to <em>feel, </em>again, ever since Sammy left. It’s the worst feeling in the world—<em>existing</em> <strong><em>without</em></strong> <em>feeling.</em></p><p>Dean curbed his emptiness—<em>the loneliness</em>—with excessive amounts of food. But even food could only go so far to curb that longing—<em>that need</em>—that’s lived inside of him, these past years.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck …</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t know if he can go <strong>back</strong> to that, now.</p><p>But his mind keeps screaming at him that he <strong><em>has</em></strong> to. He has no other <strong>choice</strong>.</p><p>Sammy is gonna up and leave. He’s already planned it all out in his head, and that means, Dean, will be left with <strong><em>nothing</em></strong>, again.</p><p>Nothing but this <em>brokenness</em> that he’s learned to exist with.</p><p>So—<em>internally</em>—Dean resolves to let tonight, go.</p><p>There is no other option, after all. Any other choice is hardly a choice at all, but a straight-shot path to <strong>disappointment</strong>.</p><p>“Dean,” Sammy breaks the silence that they’ve been existing in for the last couple of minutes, disrupting Dean’s thoughts.</p><p>“Yeah, Sammy?”</p><p>“I need you to promise me, something,” Sammy says, while tracing circles along Dean’s nearest bicep.</p><p>“Promise, what?” Sammy should know by now that whatever he wants is already a given. Hell, Dean promised himself, earlier tonight, that this was never gonna happen, again—<em>but here they are</em>—and he always caves.</p><p>
  <em>Always.</em>
</p><p>“If shit <strong><em>ever</em></strong> gets that bad, again …” Sammy, suddenly changes course and drags his thumb across one of Dean’s permanent forearm scars, soberly, “… you’ll come to me?”</p><p>Dean isn’t expecting this sudden, shift in tone between them and it throws him off. Dean’s belly clenches and heart races.</p><p>“Sammy—”</p><p>“I mean it, De. You gotta know, that no matter how <em>mad</em> I get … or how … how <em>stubborn</em> I’ve been, that I <strong><em>never</em></strong> wanted you dead. You’re my big brother. You <strong>save</strong> people, like you saved <em>me</em> from Dad all those years, and the <strong>world</strong> needs you.<strong><em> I</em></strong> need you …”</p><p>Dean wants to believe everything that Sammy is saying, but part of him is always gonna be caught up in the fact that Sammy was able to live a life <strong><em>without</em></strong> him in it.</p><p>Jess made Sammy happy <em>(even if it wasn’t in a conventional sorta way it still counted) </em>and Dean has only ever wrecked shit with Sammy.</p><p>But, Dean, resolved one thing back when he stayed with Bobby.</p><p>Taking his own life isn’t the answer. Death will come for him, when it comes, but not yet—not while there are still people capable of being saved.</p><p>Linking his fingers with Sammy’s, Dean, inclines his head and plants a kiss to Sammy’s forehead.</p><p>“I know you don’t, Sammy. I’m <em>better,</em> now. An’ I don’t think about doin’ <em>that</em> anymore,” Dean insists, adamantly.</p><p>If he can reassure, Sammy, about this <strong>one</strong> little thing, then he’ll do it. <em>In a heartbeat.</em></p><p>Sammy has enough shit in his head to worry about, right now.</p><p>“You better not. ‘Cause I’ll be <em>pissed</em> if you don’t tell me,” Sammy says in this warning tone of voice that makes Dean’s stomach twist.</p><p>“You <em>know</em> my secrets, now, Sammy. There’s nothing <em>more</em> to know,” Dean whispers.</p><p>And it’s true. For the <strong>most</strong> part.</p><p>Sammy knows about Dean’s darkest bits. Anything else, is <strong><em>trivial</em></strong> by comparison.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxix. rocks along jagged streets.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>The weeks pass like freaking <em>years</em> after that for, Dean.</p><p>Two days after their tryst, Dean, answered a call from a man he’d saved from a poltergeist with, Dad, a while back, and despite having a renewed sense of panicky-fear where airplanes are involved, they still had little no hope of locating, Dad, or the freaking Yellow-eyed Demon, Dad’s on the tail of.</p><p>They did find out from that man, that Dad had changed his voicemail, however, which was—<em>is</em>—something, at least.</p><p>But, still, without knowing exactly where, Dad, is means that he could still be out there and in eminent danger.</p><p>Why else would Dad have taken off and hidden himself? Even from, Dean? Even at his angriest, Dad, has never behaved this way, before.</p><p>Sammy checked every single one of Dad’s alias’s and came up totally empty-handed. Which can only mean one thing.</p><p>Dad doesn’t wanna be found.</p><p>The longer they go on without any trace of, Dad, the more anxious Dean feels, in his gut.</p><p>He finds himself pinching his wrist more and more often. Leaving hard-edged lifts on his wrist-skin, and ever-present bruises in the vicinity.</p><p>But it isn’t just Dad being missing that’s caused full-blown anxiety in, Dean, either.</p><p>It’s Sammy, too.</p><p>Not just, Sammy, but the constant replays in his freaking head of <em>fucking,</em> Sammy. Just as Dean feared at the time, it’s been next to impossible to carry on, normally, after sharing Sammy’s bed for a night.</p><p>Knowing what he knows, about Jess, and about Sam … God, it’s like torture.</p><p>‘Cause Sammy is grieving. Having these constant nightmares that keep them both up at night. And Sammy is also refusing to sleep most of the time, ‘cause of the nightmares.</p><p>Sometimes, Dean, will wake up to find Sammy watching him from across their hotel room. Just watching … with bags under both eyes and a cracked-lip from biting away at the skin.</p><p>And the worst thing of all?</p><p>Sammy isn’t telling him something.</p><p>Sammy even admitted as much on the ‘Bloody Mary’ case they worked on. Hell, whatever this ‘secret’ is, it was enough for a vengeful spirit to latch onto, and try to kill Sammy ‘cause of it.</p><p>So, yeah, Dean, has been nervous as hell. Right on the edge of losing his freaking shit.</p><p>His binge-eating has gotten worse, and Sammy has even started to <em>(appear)</em> to notice, which completely fucking sucks.</p><p>Dean feels <strong><em>gross</em></strong> about it.</p><p>He heads out, a lot, to get food (solo), then sits in Baby in some rundown, two-bit store parking lot, where he devours a whole pie in one sitting, before driving back to the motel—<em>back to Sammy.</em></p><p>At least when they catch a case, he has the ability to shove down his feelings and worries, and go about things as typically as possible, but it’s the downtime in-between where shit in his head seems to just cave-in on him, and drive him full-on whacko.</p><p>Dean calls Dad obsessively, every chance he gets, (especially after a binge of pie or cake) and (isn’t especially proud of it) but he’s resorted to near-on begging for Dad to pick up a phone and actually call him.</p><p>Just once.</p><p>One phone call so that he’ll know, Dad, is fine.</p><p>That, Dad, is okay …</p><p>But, Dad, has never taken the bait.</p><p>He won’t call.</p><p>Dean tries not to bring up, Dad, too often now with Sammy. Mostly, ‘cause when he does, Sammy, gets this hard-pressed look in his darkish-green eyes and turns his knuckles into a tight-fist. Which, Dean, knows is Sammy’s way of stowing away his hatred toward, Dad, and everything that he’s said and done.</p><p>Sam only wants to find, Dad, to tell him off, now.</p><p>Probably to kill him with his bare hands … Dean, is still working on how to talk Sammy outta doing anything rash, once they do, find him.</p><p>After all, Dad, is all Dean is gonna have when Sammy goes back to college. That won’t really work if Dad is dead, ‘cause Sammy made sure of it …</p><p>Dean really wishes that he hadn’t told Sammy the whole damn truth, that night.</p><p>Truly.</p><p>‘Cause, he catches Sammy staring at him like he’s this wounded, sorry little puppy-dog, lately. And it isn’t helping with his nerves. Not in the least.</p><p>Dean hates being seen as a victim, ‘cause he isn’t really a victim of Dad … Dad is a victim of Dean’s—or at least that is how Dean has always seen it.</p><p>He is a curse—a scourge on everyone and everything.</p><p>That’s just how it is, and Sammy should understand that, but he doesn’t.</p><p>Dean still thinks about waking up last month in Sammy’s arms. Still thinks about how that felt … enclosed tight under his little brother’s massive arm, fitted in the nook, right up against Sammy’s chest—and how safe that felt.</p><p>He still thinks about sliding outta bed, before Sammy woke up and showering in an attempt to erase the memory—to erase his Sammy’s scent from his skin, ‘cause he had no right to it, anymore.</p><p>No right to any part of Sammy, period.</p><p>Dean is thinking about that night, <em>again</em>, right now.</p><p>While he forks massive heaps of blueberry pie into his mouth. His stomach aches, but he keeps going until he’s topped off the whole thing. It makes him feel sick, but at least he can concentrate on the ache of a full belly, rather than the resolute ache of a <em>wanting</em> soul.</p><p>Dean knows that Sammy is, too, damaged right now to move on from, Jess, but he wishes <em>(more than anything)</em> that Sammy <strong>could</strong>.</p><p>‘Cause, if Sammy actually showed some sorta interest in any one of the girls that they’ve come into contact with <em>(on their recent hunts)</em> then maybe it would make this wretched feeling inside of Dean just a little bit <em>more</em> tolerable …</p><p>Maybe it would help remind him that Sammy is on a different path. That he <strong>wants</strong> to be normal … and that any hope … hope for ever sharing a passion-filled night like they had last month ever again, isn’t <em>realistic</em>.</p><p>Dean clears thoughts of Sammy from his head, gets outta Baby to toss the empty pie-box in the nearest trash bin, and drives back to their motel.</p><p>Sammy has been acting a little out of sorts for these last few days. It’s been almost a week since their last hunt, and Dean has kept outta their motel as often as he can manage.</p><p>Hustling pool across the street from their motel at the local bar, and picking up chicks to have meaningless <em>(unfeeling)</em> sex with, is about all he can manage, and at least it keeps him clear-away from Sammy.</p><p>Dean hesitates when he reaches the door. Thinking about whether or not he actually wants to head inside, or not.</p><p>After a few seconds, hesitation, he decides to head in, planting the bags of food on the motel table, once he’s inside.</p><p>“What took you so long?” Sammy asks, from where he’s situated on his motel bed. He has a pad of paper in his hand and peers up from whatever he’s writing, after a moment.</p><p>“What’re you talking about? I wasn’t gone that long, Sammy.”</p><p>“It’s, Sam,” Sammy mutters, “And it’s been over an hour.”</p><p>Dean stares at the bedside clock with dismay, and wrinkles his mouth at the corners, but doesn’t say anything in his defense.</p><p>“Did you stop somewhere and eat something?” Sammy is being rather persistent, today.</p><p>Dean’s stomach churns, “No,” he lies, uneasily.</p><p>“Then why do you have blue-stuff on your face?” Sammy points out and Dean feels his stomach sink and churn.</p><p>He wants to sink into a hole and friggin’ stay there. “Whatever,” Dean hurries for the bathroom and washes his face. Wiping the remnants of pie from the corners of his mouth, feeling like he was just caught with a hand in the cookie jar, or something.</p><p>“Why do you do that?” Sammy calls from the main room, still not getting up from his mattress.</p><p>Dean shuts off the tap and heads back outta the bathroom and settles down on the edge of his own bed.</p><p>“Do what?” Dean asks, puzzled.</p><p>“Lie about eating? You never used to eat as much as you do, now. Or lie about it for that matter,” Sammy seems nervous about asking these things, and Dean wishes he wouldn’t have asked, period.</p><p>What exactly is he supposed to say about it? Dean knows that he has a freaking problem with food, but … explaining the reasons why he has a problem? Dean doesn’t know how to even do that.</p><p>“I don’t,” he tries to lie, again, but Sammy gives him this <em>‘are you kidding me?’</em> look and has Dean’s stomach back in knots in seconds.</p><p>“You literally <em>just</em> did, Dean,” Sammy points out.</p><p>“Just let me alone, Sammy. I don’t wanna talk about it. Same as you don’t tell me all <em>your</em> shit, either,” Dean answers, defensively.</p><p>Sammy shoots him a look, but doesn’t try to press for any further answers. Instead, he returns his attention to the notepad and just keeps writing.</p><p>Dean sees Sammy’s laptop on the table, near the groceries, heads over to it and starts searching for a new case. Something—<em>anything</em>—to get them the hell outta here and back on the road.</p><p>He finds a few places of interest, but when he reads them off to, Sammy, he disregards them all <em>(doesn’t pay attention) </em>and it takes a little bit of prying, but Dean eventually gets Sammy to crack and tell him what the hell is going on.</p><p>The information, isn’t <em>(expressly)</em> good.</p><p>Apparently, Sammy’s nightmares <em>(sometimes)</em> come true, and he dreamed about Jess’s death prior to it occurring … which is horrifying in and of itself … Which leads to the last thing—<em>the worst thing</em>—Sammy wants to go back <strong>home</strong> … back to <em>Lawrence.</em></p><p>Back to the one place, Dean, swore to himself—<em>to God</em>—to the freaking non-existent <strong>angels</strong> up above, that he’d never go, ever again …</p><p>And, now, now, he doesn’t have a goddamned <em>choice</em>.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Dean has been sitting here<em>, (on his mattress, in a crap hotel room just outside of Lawrence)</em> for the past twenty-or-so odd-minutes, trying to wrap his head around everything that’s happened these past few days in his <em>‘would-be’</em> hometown.</p><p>He can still see the gentle, soft-blue eyes of Mom’s, staring right into his. Offering him this gentle smile, while saving both his and Sammy’s lives from the entity that would’ve killed them.</p><p>Dean can still feel the whisper of chill that came off of her essence, like this frigid icy, <em>wisp</em>.</p><p>All this time, Mom has been <strong>trapped</strong> inside that place?</p><p>Lingering and suffering as a burning, <em>terrified</em> being?</p><p>Dean doesn’t wanna <strong>accept</strong> that. He can still see, Mom, as this elegant reflection of grace and beauty. She has remained immortalized, forever, in his head as this perfect, untouchable essence.</p><p>And, he had her <strong><em>back</em></strong> … for a few seconds … only to watch her sacrifice herself, right in front of his very eyes. Just like she sacrificed herself for Sammy in that nursery, all those years ago.</p><p>It’s <em>unconscionable.</em></p><p>Sammy is close-by, with both hands planted in his lap. Silently, staring off into cyberspace, with this <strong><em>vacant</em></strong> expression written into his eyes.</p><p>Dean wants to say something to comfort him, but really has no idea what he can say. What would make <strong>everything</strong> they just experienced, <em>better?</em></p><p>“All that time, Mom, was in that house <em>… trapped …”</em> Sam breaks the silence hovering in the air, between them.</p><p>Dean can feel his insides clench and balls his fingers into a tight-bound fist.</p><p>“I thought she was … well <em>wherever</em> souls go when they leave here,” he responds, trying not to think about how long Mom was actually left alone in that place.</p><p>Dean reaches into his discarded <em>duffle (a few feet away at the end of his mattress)</em> and pulls out one of his bottles of cheap whiskey. If there was ever a time to get drunk, <strong><em>this</em></strong> was it.</p><p>Unscrewing the cap, he took a long swig, and extended the bottle towards, Sammy.</p><p>Sammy gives him this usual <em>‘Stubborn Sammy’</em> stare, and Dean thought <em>(for a second)</em> Sammy might turn it down, but Sammy ultimately accepts, taking a little swig of his own.</p><p>“I don’t <em>drink</em> so much anymore …” Sammy admits, after a few moments of listless silence, between them.</p><p>Dean has to admit he wouldn’t have guessed that Sammy didn’t indulge while in college. Hell, it’s the <em>‘Winchester Way’</em> to drink away any and all of their problems.</p><p>Dad does. Dean does. Sammy <strong><em>used</em></strong> to, anyway …</p><p>Sammy screws up his face, when he takes another swig, and Dean would be smiling and laughing—if he weren’t so depressed right friggin’ now.</p><p>“You’ve gone <strong><em>soft</em></strong> on me, Sammy-Sam,” Dean says, instead, without the smile to accompany it.</p><p>Sammy glares at him, half-heartedly and extends the bottle back to him, “Whatever, Dean. Maybe we should <strong>just</strong> try to sleep.”</p><p>Dean is suddenly reminded of the nightmares that Sammy has been having. These night terrors that sometimes come true. The ones that Sammy has <em>(apparently)</em> been keeping from him.</p><p>“What happens <em>when</em> we go to sleep? Huh? You gonna have more <em>premonitions</em>, I gotta worry about?” Dean pries, trying to gauge the seriousness of what’s going on with Sammy.</p><p>He wishes more than anything that Dad would pick up his <strong><em>damn</em></strong> cell. But if their return to Lawrence, didn’t get Dad’s attention, Dean, doubts anything actually <strong>will</strong>—and that includes Sammy’s <strong><em>freakish</em></strong> nightmares.</p><p> Dean has still been leaving, Dad, half-pleading voicemails every night <em>(to no avail),</em> after all.</p><p>And he still gets nothing in return, except radio silence … go friggin’ <strong>figure</strong>.</p><p>Sammy throws him a <em>‘stay out of it’</em> look, then sighs, and says, “I don’t <em>know,</em> Dean. I can’t just turn it on and off, okay?”</p><p>Dean takes another long swig from the bottle and tries not to let this sinking panicky feeling take root as he imagines how bad these nightmares could get, and that he’s gonna have to deal with the fallout all on his own, with no Dad to lean on in the aftermath.</p><p>“You ever have any dreams about … about <em>me?” </em>Dean hears himself asking, before he even realizes he made the <strong>decision</strong> to ask it out loud.</p><p>Sammy freezes and stares at him with this <em>off</em> sorta glance.</p><p>“You mean … <em>premonitions</em> about you?” Sammy asks.</p><p>“Yeah. I mean … it would kinda be <strong>good</strong> to know if I’m gonna wind up on some <strong><em>ceiling</em></strong> or something, <em>you know?”</em></p><p>Sammy, fidgets clearly uncomfortable talking about this, but Dean needs to know.</p><p>“No, Dean. I <em>haven’t</em> dreamed about you … not in <strong>that</strong> sorta way, anyway …”</p><p>Dean takes a second to understand what Sammy means by <em>‘that sorta way,’</em> and when it finally hits him—it throws him for a loop and he thinks his head might just explode.</p><p>“You still … <em>I</em> <em>mean …”</em> Dean clears his throat and tries not to read <strong>too</strong> much into what Sammy is saying. After all, they have already established that Sammy is gonna go back to his <strong><em>normal</em></strong> life after this … the shit they meant to one another in the past, needs to <strong>stay</strong> in the past, <em>where it belongs.</em></p><p>Dean can’t keep opening himself back up to Sammy. Not if he doesn’t wanna break in two, when Sammy up and <em>leaves</em> the next time.</p><p>“Yeah, De. I <em>still</em> do,” Sammy is blushing, bright and red, now, and Dean bobs his head in a tiny gesture of understanding as he tries to keep himself together.</p><p>“You’re right. We <em>should</em> get some shuteye,” Dean abruptly changes the subject, ‘cause he sure as hell doesn’t wanna end up in <strong>bed</strong> with Sammy, tonight.</p><p>He most definitely can’t handle another <em>vulnerable</em> night in Sammy’s arms.</p><p>He is still trying to process the fact that Mom has been within reach all these damned years, and now she’s just … <em>just gone …</em> <strong><em>again</em></strong>.</p><p>It’s not <strong>fair</strong>. None of the shit that’s happened to him, has ever been fair—but he <strong>deals</strong> with it. Like always. And somehow, Dean’s gotta process and get over this, too.</p><p>And he will … but its gonna take some time.</p><p><strong><em>A lot</em></strong> of time.</p><p>“Yeah, okay. Goodnight, Dean,” Sammy climbs under the sheets and curls up, with his back facing Dean.</p><p>Dean shifts his duffle bag to the floor, takes down the rest of the whiskey, topping off the bottle, and climbs under his own covers. Still trying not to think about Sammy’s dreams.</p><p>But it’s goddamned <em>impossible!</em></p><p>And, Dean, keeps thinking about it, until he finally passes out, tucked tightly underneath his covers.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Sweat is still clinging to every part of Sam’s skin while he goes over the phone call <em>(just now)</em> from, Dad, in his head.</p><p>If he hadn’t been half-asleep with that same reoccurring nightmare <em>(of Jess pinned to their bedroom ceiling)</em> still shimmering in the corner of his mind, maybe he would’ve told, Dad, off.</p><p>Maybe he would have brought up, Dean, and the shit he now knows the traumatic details about … maybe he would’ve argued more …</p><p>About the fucking coordinates that led them first to the Wendigo in the woods six months ago, and then to the Asylum, just last week.</p><p>Maybe, he would’ve told, Dad, to <strong><em>fuck off</em></strong>—maybe he still wishes that he could …</p><p>But at the same time, Sammy, also has <strong><em>Dean</em></strong> to think about.</p><p>And he <em>does</em> think about, Dean, a lot.</p><p>He thinks about how much Dean had suffered in silence, while he was completely clueless about <strong><em>all</em></strong> of it. Sam thinks about how scared Dean must have been as a little boy with the weight of this whole damned world on his shoulders … but, Sam, also thinks about <strong>Jess</strong>.</p><p>Jess, who didn’t know a <em>thing</em> about the sorta life that Sam comes from. Jess, who died because Sam was fucking <em>careless</em> with <em>her</em> life.</p><p>And he thinks about how much he wants to kill the thing that killed <strong>her</strong>. The Yellow-Eyed demon, that Dad just confirmed is <em>in-fact</em> a demon <em>(for sure and actual)</em> like they’d always assumed, and now, Sam, can’t stop thinking about <strong><em>murdering</em></strong> that thing.</p><p>If, Dad, is close … then there is hope.</p><p><strong>Actual</strong>, hope.</p><p>And, Sam, wants that evil son-of-a-bitch, dead a hell of a lot more than he wants, Dad, dead.</p><p>Because if he thinks about it—<em>about everything</em>—long and hard, this Yellow-Eyed demon is responsible for so much more than just Mom’s death.</p><p>This bastard is responsible for <strong><em>everything</em></strong> that Dean has gone through as well. Dad <em>never</em> would’ve touched, Dean, if Mom were here. He never would’ve packed them into their goddamned car and dragged them all across the country to find Mom’s demon murderer.</p><p>All of his family’s misery can be tracked back to one fucking monster.</p><p><strong><em>Just</em></strong> one.</p><p>And it <strong>isn’t</strong>, Dad.</p><p>Sam watches while Dean storms through their room like a tornado in action. Gathering up his things in record time, stuffing them into his duffel. Prepared to hit the road—<em>again</em>.</p><p>“Come on, Sammy! Dad gave us a mission, it’s time to go do it.” Dean orders.</p><p>Sam feels his stomach clench and hears his thoughts screaming at him. Without saying a word, Sam, gathers up his things, but he has no intention of going with, Dean.</p><p>He is gonna find, Dad—<em>and that fucking demon.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Tied to a tree, losing all hope, Dean, can still see the image of Sammy, backpack draped over his shoulder, stubborn glance in his eyes, as he made the decision to hitchhike along the highway.</p><p>To abandon, Dean—<em>again.</em></p><p>It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise … Dean has never truly been worth a <strong>damn</strong>, anyway.</p><p>Why would Sammy <em>choose</em> to stay with him? To <strong>listen</strong> to him? It’s been a long, damn time since Sammy has blindly followed his orders.</p><p>Why should he start, <em>now?</em></p><p>Dean is <strong>very</strong> aware that he’s gonna die.</p><p>That’s just par for the fucking course at this point.</p><p>But it is the eternal damnation part that has Dean in its grips.</p><p>He has sinned more than he’s not, and he knows what awaits him on the other side.</p><p>All the times that he’s sought comfort with, Sammy; that he’s fed his—<em>their</em>—darkest impulses and spent whole days in the midst of exploring his little brother’s body … well, Dean, just knows that there will be consequences, for all of it.</p><p>And that is all he can think about right now.</p><p>
  <em>Sammy.</em>
</p><p>And how much he has always loved his little brother.</p><p>And how he isn’t enough for Sammy.</p><p>Nothing that he is, could ever be good enough for such a smart, inquisitive, being.</p><p>Dean struggles for hours, with this girl <em>(he desperately wants to save)</em> restrained to a tree, nearby, while thinking about Sammy.</p><p>Escape is hopeless. His every effort, futile. But still, Dean, keeps struggling to come up with a <em>‘Hail Mary.’ </em></p><p>And just when he loses all hope Sammy appears—<em>and</em> <em>saves his skin.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>With, Sammy, back at his side, <em>(for good until all this is done, Sammy claims anyway)</em> Dean, can finally relax.</p><p>And, maybe he relaxes, <strong>too</strong>, much.</p><p>Maybe he leans on <em>his</em> Sammy, too much. ‘Cause in all reality, he is <strong>always</strong> gonna need Sammy more than he can utter, aloud.</p><p>The bump of noise, thunders through Dean’s bones, as he tries to <em>think</em> straight.</p><p>He got Sammy to head upstairs, to get out of this godforsaken basement, with the children, so that he’d be able to gank this freakin’ monster on his own.</p><p>In the moment, he didn’t think about his own safety, just killing this <em>thing</em> that snatches up children.</p><p>
  <em>Kids …</em>
</p><p>Kids like, Sammy, used to be.</p><p>Dean reacted in the moment like he always used to—<em>like an overprotective Dad. </em>Sammy is always gonna be <em>his</em> kid, after all.</p><p>In his heart—<em>in his mind</em>—Sammy will <strong>always</strong> be little. Not a <em>man</em>, just his <strong>little</strong> kid.</p><p>So, yeah, in the moment, Dean, snatched up his taser, shot at <strong>it</strong> —<em>the monster</em>—and electrocuted himself as well as the monster, <strong>simultaneously</strong>.</p><p>The jolts flooded his body like a million little thunderbolts—and God, it friggin’ hurt.</p><p>There is no <em>better</em> description than that.</p><p>It hurt, <em>like hell.</em></p><p>And suddenly, everything is going black—his last thought is that he wishes, Sammy, were here … that he wishes he could see his face, one <strong><em>last</em></strong> time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>Sam can still see, Dean, in a crumpled heap, on the wet floor of that old, rickety abandoned house.</p><p>All Sam could think about it—<em>in the moment</em>—was getting, Dean, help.</p><p>He’d called 9-1-1, watched them load his big brother into the ambulance—<em>and followed behind in the Impala.</em></p><p>Now, Sam, is left with this <strong>one</strong> constant thought in his mind—Dean has a <em>month</em> to live.</p><p>His strong,<em> capable,</em> protector—<em>his big brother</em>—is going to die and there isn’t a <strong>thing</strong> he can do about it.</p><p>There is this completely helpless ache inside of him—<em>this foreboding hole</em>—that is sinking deeper and deeper into his soul by the minute.</p><p>He would trade places with, Dean, in a heartbeat … He’d do anything, so that he doesn’t have to lose him …</p><p>Sam can still see the tired, dark-rimmed eyes of Dean’s, staring up at him from his hospital bed, putting on a brave<em> ‘Everything’s super,’</em> face.</p><p>All the while, Sam knew, deep down, that Dean was terrified, but he wouldn’t show it.</p><p>Dad has ingrained in Dean that showing fear—<em>showing any sorta pain, even</em>—is weakness.</p><p>Sam hates it, but there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.</p><p>
  <em>About anything.</em>
</p><p>Sam has sat in this stupid hotel room, trying to figure out what to do. Trying to find an answer—and the closest thing he has come to an answer … is a <em>faith healer.</em></p><p>God, Dean, is gonna <strong>hate</strong> him for it.</p><p>But, Dad, hasn’t picked up his phone, so Sam is all alone in this.</p><p>All alone in trying to <strong>save</strong> his big brother from this pointless, freaking, fate.</p><p>
  <em>“Dean!”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Sam startles when, Dean, half-limps through their motel room door, with this half-worn smile on his pale-blue lips.</p><p>Sam feels his head spin and heart race as he tries to wrap his head around, <em>why,</em> Dean, is outta the hospital, right now.</p><p>“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, in a soft tone that has Sam’s insides feel all hot and liquid-like.</p><p>Standing up from his mattress, Sam, crosses the room and wraps his arms around Dean’s frame. Holding him tight to the broadest part of his chest.</p><p>For the first time, in a long time, Sam, savors the nearness of, Dean. Takes in his masculine scent; the lingering chemicals from the hospital on his skin along with the sweat and salt hovering in the air.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be here, De …” Sam breathes in a low whisper, trying to compose himself.</p><p>The last thing he wants to do right now, is cry.</p><p>Dean shrugs it off with a little wince and heads for his own mattress, settling down on the edge.</p><p>“If I’m gonna die, it’s <strong>not</strong> gonna be in some friggin’ hospital bed,” Dean insists, “It’s just <em>not.”</em></p><p>Deep down he knows that Dean would never choose to die, peacefully. It really just isn’t a very <em>‘Dean,’ </em>way to go. Despite knowing that, it makes this no easier for Sam.</p><p>Not in the least.</p><p>Sam is suddenly drawn to Dean. He wants to share as much space as possible, because he can’t see wasting another minute worrying about right and wrong—<em>and forever.</em></p><p>So, Sam, heads to Dean’s mattress and sits down at his hip, closer than is strictly necessary.</p><p>“Dean … I’m <em>not</em> gonna let you die,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.</p><p>Dean sighs and gives him this look, that has Sam all the more knotted up inside and ready to burst.</p><p>“If it’s my time, it’s my <strong>time</strong>, Sammy-Sam. You don’t need me. You never really have. I just hold you back, I’m the whole reason that Jess is—”</p><p>“No! <em>Jess, </em>isn’t <strong>your</strong> fault, De! I refuse to let you keep blaming yourself for what happened to her. It’s on me! I was meant to protect her, not you. Her death is <strong><em>solely</em></strong> on me, alright?”</p><p>Dean tries to argue, but Sam isn’t having any of it. Leaning in, Sam, glides a sweltering kiss over Dean’s plump lips. Kissing the blue-tinged things, with abandon—and this compulsive need to be <strong>close</strong> with Dean.</p><p>Sam hears little cries emit from the back of Dean’s throat, while the widest part of both his hands, explore the crevices along Dean’s chest.</p><p>“Fuck … what’re you doin,’ Sammy? Huh?” Dean half-moans, in a low tone of voice, sounding half-strangled.</p><p>“What I should’ve done four years ago when you needed me to.”</p><p>It all seems so silly and pointless, now. With Dean potentially at the end of his life—and all their ridiculous avoidances of each other. All of this ridiculously pent-up need and all of their fights and the hurtful things he’s said and done that’ve nearly <strong><em>destroyed</em></strong> the love of his life …</p><p>Sam realizes, right here, in this moment, that Jess was <strong><em>never</em></strong> the love of his life.</p><p>He loved her—<em>still loves her</em>—and wishes she were still here. But ultimately, Dean, <em>is</em> his <strong>first</strong> love—<em>his forever love</em>—and no amount of love for Jess <em>(or anyone else for that matter)</em> is ever gonna change.</p><p>No matter <strong><em>who</em></strong> comes along or why.</p><p>No matter how many times they decide that a shared night is their <em>‘last night’</em> spent together, Sam, still loves, <em>only</em> Dean, the most.</p><p><strong>Always</strong>.</p><p>Sam clamors awkwardly onto, Dean’s lap, yearning to sit on his big brother the way he used to when they were just kids <em>(when he was much smaller and Dean much larger than him in stature)</em> and pushes their crotches together.</p><p>Feels this clash of heat that immediately makes him stiff and engorged between his thighs—God, he just <em>needs,</em> Dean …</p><p>The noises that are falling outta Dean’s lips right now, are like <strong>music</strong> to his ears.</p><p>“Sammy … Sammy … <em>God …</em> You’re gonna … gonna make my <em>heart</em> stop …” Dean simpers and Sammy hates that Dean might actually be right.</p><p>
  
</p><p>If he goes <strong>too</strong> fast … if he puts too <em>much</em> strain on Dean’s fragile body … if might give out, sooner than it otherwise will.</p><p>“You <strong>want</strong> me to <em>stop?”</em> Sam slows his hips to a standstill and rests his palms on Dean’s shoulders.</p><p>Dean is visibly quivering, and Sam shifts one of his hands to feel the pound of Dean’s <em>broken</em> heart, trying to survey the damage. Feeling every tiny, sporadic pump forcing Dean’s blood flow.</p><p>“Sammy. It’s not that I want you stop,” Dean manages to breathe out, despite his quivering vocal cords and heart, “it’s just that I … Sammy, we <em>can’t</em> keep falling into each other. It <strong>hurts</strong>, too, much.”</p><p>Sam thumbs away a few of Dean’s tears, then kisses the cracked, dry skin of his lips.</p><p>“I’ll take care of <strong>you</strong>, this time, De. I’ll be gentle … and you <em>won’t</em> hurt … I promise,” Sam feels that he needs to make up for the first time, Dean, let him top.</p><p>For all of the hurt and the pain that Dean went through, that night …</p><p>If nothing else … and if Sam’s idea of going to a faith healer, doesn’t work, he wants to have had <strong>that</strong>. A chance at a do-over.</p><p>“Do you <em>trust</em> me, De?” he asks, soulfully.</p><p>“’Course I do, Sammy. But … you <em>know</em> how I panic when …” Dean closes his eyes and Sam’s heart cinches, because he knows he is the one that put this <em>fear</em> in Dean.</p><p>This inability to be taken and think of himself as loved, properly …</p><p>At least between them, anyway.</p><p>Dean gave him his trust, once, and Sammy wrecked it all—wrecked so much between them back then—and he realizes that, now.</p><p>It’s too late, but he really does … realize how much wrong he’s done.</p><p>“I found a way to <em>save</em> your life, De, but if it … if it doesn’t work, then I want to have had this. A chance to make it right … what I did to you <em>that</em> time …”</p><p>Sam kisses a loving trail across, Dean’s neck. Pushes his hands underneath the hem of Dean’s sweatshirt, caressing the skin just there, until Dean is wracked with quivers and half-moaning, Sam’s name. Sliding a hand down, he aims straight for Dean’s manhood, encircling the hard rod, giving a few wanks of pressure.</p><p>“F-Fuck! Sammy!” Dean gasps and squirms.</p><p>“Please, De?” he pants, “I hate that I made you hurt … I hate that I did what I did …”</p><p>He can tell that Dean’s features are softening, that he’s starting to ease into the idea.</p><p>“Alright, Sammy. Okay, just … just be gentle with me …” Dean sighs, in a half-whisper, that has Sam’s flesh singing.</p><p> With Dean’s permission offered, Sam, slowly does away with their clothing. Kissing wherever he can, in order to soothe, Dean, while he does. Letting the bulk of their erections graze together, as Dean timidly allows him to open his legs. Spreading him enough to accommodate his much larger frame in-between.</p><p>Dean is understandably nervous. It shows on his face, whenever Sam retracts from their kissing long enough to glance into his eyes.</p><p>But, <em>(so far anyway) </em>Dean isn’t panicking.</p><p>Sam reaches down to graze Dean’s rear passage. Fingering the puckered hole, gently.</p><p>Dean squirms subtly and lets out a slow forced breath, but doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes.</p><p>“Dean,” cupping his cheek, he forces Dean to look into his eyes, “I love you <strong>more</strong> than, anyone.”</p><p>And he does, truly.</p><p>He loves, Dean, more than he’s ever loved anyone, or anything in this moment. God, he is willing to give up his whole damn life for his big brother—and he suddenly realizes that.</p><p>“I know you do, Sammy. It’s just …” Dean trails off and Sam is desperate to hear what Dean was gonna say.</p><p>“Just, what, De? What’s the <strong>matter</strong>?”</p><p>“With everyone else …” Dean lowers his eyes, unwilling (perhaps unable) to meet Sam’s while he says his bit, “… with every guy, I mean … I’ve always been the one underneath … been used for whatever they wanted … their pleasure … I’ve always been the <em>‘bitch,’</em>” Dean winches and Sam’s heart nearly tears in two.</p><p>“W-What?” Sam doesn’t know what to say to this, or really how to react.</p><p>Immediately, his mind travels to, Dad, and wonders if Dad is the one that put such a twisted notion in Dean’s mind. But, Sam, also remembers what he called Dean … <em>that</em> night … It’s all hazy and shit, but Sam remembers that part: calling Dean <em>‘his <strong>bitch</strong>,’</em> like it was the worst <strong>possible</strong> thing.</p><p>Dean must’ve been <em>so</em> humiliated.</p><p>Sam lowers his hand from Dean’s cheek and fists the sheets, below.</p><p>“Is that what you think, that<em> I</em> want you to be, De? Because it’s not—<em>I mean</em>—I <strong>don’t</strong>.”</p><p>Dean has these tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and Sam hurries to wipe them away, before dipping down his head to kiss any that do fall away, forcibly.</p><p>“It’s never felt like love when I’m like this … I <em>hate</em> how, <strong><em>this</em></strong> feels …”</p><p>Sam wrinkles his brow, “and how <em>does</em> this feel, Dean?”</p><p>Dean scrunches his hands into tight fists and swallows around this visible lump of emotion.</p><p>“Like I’m <strong>nothing</strong> … like … like I’ll <strong>never</strong> be loved …”</p><p>Sam’s heart tears the rest of the way apart, and he immediately feels sick, like there’s this godawful pit in his stomach that will never fill in, again.</p><p>“Fuck … Don’t say that, De,” Sam whispers, urgently, “You are loved. Even like this … even underneath me, it changes nothing. You’re my big brother and I fucking love you, and I’m gonna make love to you—and it’s not gonna feel wrong. Just let me <strong>try</strong> …”</p><p>Moving his hips to grind their swollen parts together, yearning to drive a reaction outta, Dean.</p><p>And it <em>does</em>.</p><p>Dean keens loudly, while quivering underneath the bulk of Sam’s body weight.</p><p>In the next second, Dean, is agreeing with little hitches in his throat, and Sam wastes no time in lining up his leaky need at Dean’s entrance.</p><p>He is slow and gentle, <em>like he promised.</em></p><p>Dean shudders at first, but slowly unclenches his fists and seems to ease into it, with the help of Sam whispering sweet nothings into his ear.</p><p><em>“See?</em> This feels good, doesn’t it, De? It doesn’t hurt if it’s done <strong>right</strong>, hm?” Sam keeps whispering things, until Dean is a quivering, simpering mess.</p><p>It feels like heaven to be inside of Dean. It’s tight and hot and this time, neither of them are inebriated. Just sexually charged in desperate, because of Dean’s condition—and Sam reaches his peak much sooner than he anticipates.</p><p>Glorious rushes of pleasure radiate throughout his frame, while Dean, too, meets his peak, with Sam’s hand rushes up and down the length of his stiffy.</p><p>Seed spatters over both their middles, while they equally lose themselves in the pleasant thrill of this act.</p><p>It isn’t until <strong>much</strong> later, after they’re tangled in the aftermath of limbs, blankets, and parts, that Sam whispers, “Do you feel how much I love you, <em>now?”</em></p><p>And Dean whispers, “Yeah, Sammy, ‘course I do,” while straining for several minutes to catch his breath.</p><p>Sam worries, but Dean eventually settles and his weak heart sends him off to sleep, so that he can rejuvenate.</p><p>And Sam, too, eventually, falls to sleep at his big brother’s side.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>It’s been weeks but Dean can still feel Sammy’s touch all over his skin.</p><p>He can hear the thump of their heartbeats in tandem, and can sense the lingering pieces of good and bad in-between every kiss and touch, they shared between them.</p><p>Dean has since <em>‘recovered,’</em> thanks to Sammy’s efforts at finding a <em>‘faith healer,’</em> but the cost was much more than Dean can rightly bear.</p><p>Another life was <em>stolen</em> in order to save his.</p><p>It feels wrong to be living and breathing—to be <strong><em>existing</em></strong>—considering the disturbing knowledge he has to carry, about <strong>why</strong> he’s still here.</p><p>It also hasn’t helped that he has had to admit to Sammy that he had feelings <em>(that he’s basically denied to himself about having)</em> for a girl a while back, while Sammy was at Stanford.</p><p>
  <em>Cassie.</em>
</p><p>Dean used her for the most part—<em>used her to try and feel something besides this vast endless nothingness</em>—‘cause it was a little after he tried to remove himself from the board, and Cassie was just there at a bar one night.</p><p>One thing led to another and for reasons <em>(unknown even to Dean) </em>he felt this connection with her.</p><p>It was a glimmer—<em>barely even <strong>there</strong> actually</em>—but it’d drove Dean to keep returning to Cassie. And since the case he’d worked on with, Dad, <em>(at the time)</em> had been extensive, Dean, had had more than one night <em>(after he first met her)</em> to keep going back to Cassie in the first place.</p><p>And it was nice—nice to have a little <strong>comfort</strong> in the midst of so much pain hunkered down inside of his soul, at least it was at the time.</p><p>But, Dean, can still feel Sammy’s eyes on him, when he found out about his <em>past</em> with Cassie.</p><p>Things had already been fragile between Sam and him, ‘cause of their shared night together when they both thought that he was gonna die, and the fact that shit hasn’t really changed for Sammy.</p><p>Sammy is still gonna head back to college when they take out this Yellow-Eyed, Son of a Bitch.</p><p>So, Dean, has kept his distance.</p><p>Sammy crawled into his bed the night after Dean was <em>‘healed’</em> and he’d kissed and touched Sammy a little, but ultimately, he’d sent Sammy back to his own bed—<em>back to his own side of their motel room</em>—in order to safeguard his heart.</p><p>So, yeah, shit has been tense, between them, again.</p><p>Mostly, ‘cause neither of them is one-hundred percent positive about where they currently stand.</p><p>And, Dean, feels sorta shitty about the fact that he fell into bed with Cassie, despite Sam’s watchful <em>(jealous-like) </em>eyes on him, while they were helping Cassie out.</p><p>Between that and Sam getting kidnapped by psychopathic serial killers that hunted people, and the pair of them coming face to face with another psychic kid <em>(way more fucked-up than even Sammy is) </em>Dean has just about come to the end of his friggin’ rope of tolerance, here.</p><p>He’s gorged himself on cake and pie <em>(whenever he can hide it from Sammy) </em>and pinched his wrists black and blue—even made cuts with his razor blade in places that Sammy can’t see, from the stress of it all.</p><p>It’s one horrific thing after another and Dean doesn’t know how much more he can take.</p><p>Not without, Dad.</p><p>Not on his own …</p><p>Sammy is his kid, in just about every sense of the word. He’s so much more than just a brother to, Dean, but, Dad, has always been there, too. Always been there when shit is so bad that, Dean, needs advice—<em>or freaking help!</em></p><p>Dad has always picked up the damn phone when Dean begs …</p><p>But he’s not this time.</p><p>Dad won’t answer—<em>won’t call him back</em>—didn’t even care when he almost died from having his heart fail …</p><p>Alcohol, pills, cuts, pinches, whole pies … that’s how Dean is coping—<em>how he’s surviving this pressure</em>—and he doesn’t even feel he can talk to Sammy about it.</p><p>He especially can’t talk to Sammy about his fear, regarding this whole psychic, premonitions thing.</p><p>How many other kids are out there? Suffering, with dead mothers’ and abusive fathers’?</p><p>There’s no way of knowing.</p><p>Could be in the tens could be in the thousands, but this could all be on such an astronomically grand scale that Dean doesn’t know how to process it, yet—<em>or even if he can.</em></p><p>And what he’s supposed to do about it.</p><p>About, <em>Sammy.</em></p><p>The idea that Sammy can just … just see things before they happen—that Sammy can move things like that freakish kid, Max, did … well, it’s <strong>unnerving</strong> to say the least.</p><p>Dean has been playing it down for Sammy’s sake, but the truth is, he’s scared to death—<em>for Sammy. </em></p><p>This dick-wad of a Yellow-Eyed Bastard, has set Sammy in his sights, and it’s a lot to deal with.</p><p>Even more insane is the fact that Sammy apparently befriended some sorta follower of this Yellow-Eyed Bastard, and after everything that happened, tonight, <em>(ending with throwing the bitch outta window)</em> Dean, just wants to go to sleep.</p><p>There’s blood and filth caked on him from that warehouse. His skin is sore and bruised—<em>and Sammy is looking no better for their trouble, either.</em></p><p>And, Dad, didn’t come, <em>(he left him a phone call but knew it was a longshot that he’d see and respond) </em>which is just as well, considering it was a friggin’ trap.</p><p>So, the last thing Dean expects when he lumbers into their motel room, with Sammy at his <em>heel,</em> is the shadowy outline of a human-shaped figure in the darkness.</p><p>And as he flicks on the light, ready to kill whomever is there, Dean, realizes for the first time, that it’s Dad.</p><p>Alive and in the flesh—for the first time in almost eight months, he’s finally laying eyes on the man.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. part 13; to break apart & sever the tide.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Dad shows himself for the first time since disappearing 8 months ago, and Dean starts to spiral as the stakes become higher than ever and tragedy ensues. And Dean sees Bobby for the first time in three long years.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Takes place over the course of approximately 3 months.</i><br/>(covers the time between episodes 16-22 of season 1, and episodes 1-2 of season 2.)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>Hello Lovelies!<br/>I know it's been a while again since I updated this, but I've had a tremendous case of writer's block and it's been really sucky, so I apologize for the delay! I want to give you guys the best possible story that I can, so, I have been taking my time and trying to get it right! I plan to start covering larger chunks of each season in lesser parts, so, be prepared for that, moving forward! This is gonna be a wild, rollercoaster-ride of an installment so be prepared for that! I tweaked the canon just a tiny bit, blink and you miss it! Also, 13 is kinda a lucky number for me, so, I made this one extra special.<br/>Until next time!<br/>xxxxxx</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>part 13; to break apart &amp; sever the tide.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Love is like the sea, it’s calm</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>and reassuring, but in times it</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>rages like a storm.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>xxx. little calibrated hitches.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>One sensation is the most potent, above all others for, Dean, right now.</p><p>This gnarly, churn-like twist in the bottom of his gut.</p><p>It feels like an explosion of nerves and charred-up edges, that have laid dormant all these friggin’ months that, Dad, has been <em>‘missing.’</em></p><p>So, many times, Dean, stood out in the cold, clutching tight to Dad’s old leather jacket <em>(that he now wears in Dad’s absence)</em> and pleads into his cellphone for, Dad, to just <em>‘come the hell,’ </em>back.</p><p>It’s weak and pathetic—<em>and Dean knows it</em>—but, he’s been at the end of his damned rope, for a long ass time, now.</p><p>It’s been all, Dean, can do to wake up in the mornings, collect the weapon he tucks underneath his pillow at night, and face-up to another day with Sammy and all of this uncertainty about Dad, inside of him.</p><p>And, now, Dad, is just standing here, like no time has passed at all—looking a little worse for wear, but otherwise alright, clearly ready to sound-off a round of trademark <em>‘John Winchester,’</em> orders.</p><p>Dean wants to run to, Dad, and embrace him. He wants so desperately to climb into his arms and be held, like before Mom died, but he knows Dad would <strong>never</strong> allow him such a weak, child-like comfort.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have the luxury of breaking to bits—<em>hell, he <strong>never</strong> has.</em></p><p>Sammy has always been the <strong><em>only</em></strong> one in this family with that sorta luxury.</p><p>“Dad?” Dean hears his voice crack and isn’t at all sure, what to say.</p><p>He has a million questions to ask (starting with <em>‘why’d you leave me?’)</em> but he knows better than to start in on the asking.</p><p>Dad wouldn’t <strong>like</strong> it.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s me,” Dad says with his usual, unreadable stature, and casual coolness, that he’s always been known for.</p><p>Dean doesn’t feel his feet <em>moving (they are doing it of their own accord)</em> and in the next second he finds the bulk of himself <strong>pressed</strong> into Dad’s broad chest, in an airtight squeeze.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck …</em>
</p><p>He’s forgotten how it <strong>feels</strong> to be this close to, Dad.</p><p>Sam is quiet—<em>unmoving</em>—behind him and Dean turns back to glimpse, Sammy.</p><p>There is this stony-glare in Sam’s eyes. Like a poisonous, <strong><em>feral</em></strong> thing that’s been slumbering for a millennium. Just waiting for the proper moment to surface and strike.</p><p><em>‘Shit,’</em> Dean thinks to himself.</p><p>And this gouge-like <em>ache</em> in Dean’s belly rears back up its ugly head, again.</p><p>“You actually <strong>came</strong>?” Sam says it with this off-like tone, that has Dean suddenly, hyper-aware of all that Sammy <em>knows</em> now … about the <strong>past</strong>, about Dad, about <em>everything</em>.</p><p>And he doesn’t <strong>like</strong> how, <em>this,</em> feels.</p><p>The air in this motel room is <strong>stagnant</strong> with heat all of the sudden.</p><p>“Yeah, I was, too, late to be of any use, it seems,” Dad brushes off the tone in Sammy’s voice, but Dad’s tone does have a bit of warning buried in it.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Shit.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Dean hasn’t had much time to think about what Sammy might do when faced with, Dad, again.</p><p>Especially considering that, last time they were all together, was pretty damn bad, overall.</p><p>Sammy left for good and Dean fell to pieces with Dad as his <strong>sole</strong> comfort—<em>something he will never be proud of.</em></p><p>Dean speaks up before Sammy can get anything out in response to, Dad, “It was a <strong>trap</strong>, anyway. It’s a good thing you didn’t show up.”</p><p>Dad acknowledges, Dean’s <em>(hopefully)</em> peacekeeping words with a subtle incline of his head, and takes a step towards, Sam.</p><p>“It’s been a long time, Boy,” Dad admits with his tone unwavering—<em>iron-clad as ever.</em></p><p>Dean gives <em>(what he hopes construes)</em> a pleading look at Sammy not to have it out with, Dad, right now.</p><p>This isn’t the time <strong><em>or</em></strong> place.</p><p>Especially, considering, Meg, up and disappeared, which means she could be after them, even as they stand here, talking.</p><p>“Yeah. It has,” Sam has his fists clenched, Dean notices, but otherwise, isn’t attempting to pick a fight—Dean takes a deep breath in.</p><p>Then, in the next <strong>second</strong>, all hell breaks loose.</p><p>Shadows are flying around the room, shit’s breaking, and Dean can feel his feet being hoisted off the ground, and he’s being launched down to the carpet.</p><p>There’s screaming, pandemonium, pure insanity—and Dean can feel himself bleeding.</p><p>Shadow demons are scratching at his chest, drawing blood from underneath the skin. He wants to fight back—but he doesn’t have his weapons, they’re across the room on the floor.</p><p>Dean doesn’t have time to think of anything, not before Sam is screaming for Dad and him to shut their eyes.</p><p>So, Dean, does.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Light engulfs the entire room and the Shadow Demons screech in pain—<em>and disappear.</em></p><p>Dean grabs for, Dad, and they all catapult outta the motel room, and out onto the street.</p><p>
  
</p><p>After, a few minutes of catching their breath, Dean, knows what he’s gotta do, even if he doesn’t <strong>want</strong> to do it.</p><p>There’s no <em>choice</em> in the matter.</p><p>“Dad, you gotta leave,” Dean remarks, while holding his chest where he’s still got blood dripping and seeping into his shirt.</p><p>“What?! <em>No!”</em> Sam is the one that responds<em>, (to Dean’s surprise)</em> and Dean gives Sammy a look, that he hopes screams: <em>‘Shuddup!’</em></p><p>“The demon <em>knows</em> that Dad’s close, he’s never gonna stop coming for, Dad, and it’s better if he’s on his own. <strong>Safer</strong>,” Dean persists, having a silent battle of wills with Sammy, at the same time.</p><p>There’s more arguing, but eventually, Sammy, agrees that this is for the best.</p><p>Dean knows that he narrowly, just avoided an all-out war between Sammy and Dad—and he <strong>thanks</strong> the shadow demons<em> (in a way) </em>for preventing what might have <em>(otherwise)</em> been a massive, blow-out, fight between Sam and Dad.</p><p>Sammy is emotional about things <em>(always has been)</em> and doesn’t often think before he speaks—which has always been a huge friggin’ problem.</p><p>Both Sammy and Dad are like bulls and that’s bad, ‘cause Dean always winds up smack-dab in the middle of it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Later, when Dad’s gone and Sammy and him are all settled into a new motel, about fifty miles away, Sam, is still livid <em>(Dean can tell by the irritated glimmer in Sam’s eyes)</em> and Dean figures they gotta talk about this—even if it’s the very <strong>last</strong> thing, Dean, wants to have to do, right now.</p><p>“Sammy, look …” Dean struggles to find a way to say what he needs to say, here, “… I don’t want you to <strong>kill</strong>, Dad, okay?”</p><p>Sam shoots him a look from across their motel room, while preparing his bed in order to head to sleep.</p><p>“Well, you <strong>should</strong>,” Sam answers with his usual, <em>‘Sammy Stubbornness,’</em> that Dean has never been able to tame outta him.</p><p>Dean really isn’t up to this, tonight, but he doesn’t want to have to do this, next time they see, Dad, so, now is as good a time as any …</p><p>“I mean it, Sam,” Dean argues, “You’re <strong>not</strong> a kid, anymore, an’ I shouldn’t <strong>have</strong> to keep you in line.”</p><p>Sam scoffs and Dean regrets his choice of words, but he’s really freakin’ tired, right now, and doesn’t have the patience to beat around the bush, on this one.</p><p>“He fucking <strong><em>raped</em></strong> you, Dean. He touched you and <em>hurt</em> you—he lied to <strong>me</strong> and broke us up! If anyone <strong>should</strong> want him dead, it’s <em>you,</em> De!” Sam clearly isn’t beating around the bush either, he just dives right into the goddamn deep end, without stopping to catch a damn breath!</p><p>Dean has to suppress a wedge of sick from bubbling up his esophagus, as he stands here and registers what Sammy just dredged-up.</p><p>“But, I <strong>don’t</strong>, Sammy … I <em>don’t</em> want him dead and I … I was <em>never</em> gonna tell you any of that, and I <strong>shouldn’t</strong> have told you,” Dean argues, trying to restrain all of these sickening emotions inside of him.</p><p>There’s just so much fuckin’ <em>pain.</em> So much,<strong> <em>agony</em></strong>—and Dean is having a difficult time keeping himself sane, in this moment.</p><p>Sam only gets angrier and Dean instantly regrets what he’s said. “You realize the reason I believed him was <em>because</em> you kept me in the dark, right, Dean? You and your <strong>goddamn</strong> secrets!”</p><p>Dean tries not to let his hurt show on his face—instead he buries it deep, pinches his black-and-blue wrist for strength, and sighs.</p><p>“So, <strong><em>hate</em></strong> me. Be mad at <strong>me</strong> … just promise you won’t take it out on, <strong>Dad</strong>, Sammy. Promise me.”</p><p>“Or <strong>what</strong>, Dean? What will <em>you</em> do if I give the man a well-deserved beatdown? Huh?!” Sam roars, his eyes bulged and skin flush with heat.</p><p>“Just please, Sammy. Just this once … give me <strong>this</strong>, okay?” Dean goes for Sammy’s heart, yearning for him to just give in.</p><p>“Why <strong>should</strong> I, Dean? Huh? Dad ruined <strong><em>my</em></strong> life, too. He twisted you up and made you hate <strong>everything</strong> that we had. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you <strong>used</strong> to look at me, when I’d ask you for touch—for <em>anything</em> that I know your body <em>liked</em> even if your mind didn’t agree.”</p><p>Sam’s words hit Dean square in the chest and make him twist with this chaotic emotion, that he’s left buried for a<em> long <strong>damn</strong> time.</em></p><p>Sammy is always like this freaking hurricane. Storming through and wrenching up buried plots of land inside of his heart—<em>his soul—</em>and everything is bad.</p><p><strong>Especially</strong>, right now.</p><p>There isn’t a piece of Dean that has felt truly whole since Sammy went off to college and left him all alone with, Dad.</p><p>Even, now, Dean, is still unable to fight his way back from this precipice of hell inside of him and deal with this—<em>or anything.</em></p><p>And he knows it’s ‘cause he is sick. Sick deep down inside his very soul, where he’s been sick for a long, fucking time.</p><p>Dean hoists his duffle bag onto the motel carpet, next to his bed, and turns his full attention back on Sammy.</p><p>He can already <em>tell</em> that this is gonna be a long, damn, night.</p><p>They are both still caked with dried blood, with clothes that <strong>reek</strong>, and skin that <strong>aches</strong>—but Sammy is really gonna make him do this, right, damn, <em>now</em>.</p><p>“We’ve been over this so <strong>many</strong> times, Sammy,” Dean argues, “How many times do I gotta tell you, that what we have <em>always</em> done is and <strong>was</strong>, wrong? Huh? You’re a grown-ass <strong>man</strong>, now. You ain’t a little <em>kid</em> no more, Sammy, this should be common sense, here …”</p><p>Sam laughs, sarcastically and shakes his head.</p><p>“There you go, <strong>again</strong>, Dean! Making excuses for, Dad, and Dad’s shit! Turning it back on me, like <strong><em>I</em></strong> am the wrong one, between us!” Sam roars back, stubbornly.</p><p>Dean feels his chest ache, brutally.</p><p>“This ain’t about, <strong>Dad</strong>, Sammy! This is about <strong><em>you</em></strong><em>!</em> Okay? It’s about how <em>I</em> fucked <strong>you</strong> up, and how I <strong><em>keep</em></strong> fucking you up! Over and over, again!” Dean finally lays it all out, ‘cause between the few nights they’ve had together since Sammy left college and the hard-edged talks and confessions—it <strong>always</strong> boils down to <em>this:</em> everything between them is fucked-up and <strong><em>wrong</em></strong> as hell!</p><p>And sometimes, Dean, is willing to <em>face</em> that truth—and others, it escapes his mind, ‘cause part of him is <strong>always</strong> gonna be broken and weak for Sammy. But, tonight, he is trying to face it. Trying to ram it home in, Sam.</p><p>“I was never fucked-up ‘cause you touched me under my clothes, De! Why don’t you <strong>get</strong> that?! Huh?!” Sam shouts at the top of his lungs and Dean feels his heart flutter in his chest.</p><p>“Yes, you <strong>were</strong>, Sammy. Of course, you were,” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Staving off a coming headache.</p><p>Sam comes closer, now, and Dean takes in a deep breath as Sam’s hands close in around his cheeks forcing their eyes to meet.</p><p><em>“No, I <strong>wasn’t</strong>,”</em> Sammy states, adamantly, and Dean can feel his gut churning and roiling. “I thought I was when I was with, Jess, but I <strong>wasn’t</strong>. That’s not what fucked me up. What fucked me up was <strong>losing</strong> you—was having to walk <em>away</em> from you …”</p><p>Dean can’t stand this close proximity to <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy. It’s hot and thick when they draw in their every breath it’s like <strong>fire</strong> and <strong><em>scorch</em></strong> and <strong><em>burn</em></strong> … and this isn’t <strong>fair</strong>. ‘Cause this sorta hankering is something they’ve already discussed with avoidant words and meaningful stares.</p><p>Sammy is gonna go back to college. It isn’t fair or <em>right</em> that he keeps saying these things that have Dean’s stomach turn to knots.</p><p>It sure as hell isn’t helping, none, that, Dean, can still keenly sense the emotions and all these deeply tethered feelings inside of, Sammy, like he’s always been able to, since he can remember.</p><p>There’s this extensively deep bind of need and lust all coiled up in Sammy. Dean can hardly see straight as these waves of longing flood through him.</p><p>Just this touch—<em>this connection</em>—with Sammy is more than Dean can bear, right now.</p><p>“Stop it, Sammy. <em>Please,”</em> he pleads in earnest, now, ‘cause he doesn’t wanna have to pick himself back up off this motel carpet, tomorrow morning, when Sammy changes his tune—like he <strong><em>always</em></strong> does.</p><p>Dean takes the initiative to dislodge Sammy’s hand, rise from this shitty mattress, and head into the bathroom—clicking the lock on the door, before Sammy can say another word about <strong>anything</strong>.</p><p>He pushes down the feelings in his heart and in his head, while soaping himself down in the shower, and when he comes back out into the main room, Sammy, heads into the bathroom to shower himself, without another word.</p><p>Things are gonna be awkward, again, for a few days between them—but Dean figures it’s worth it, to not have to be broken at the seams, again.</p><p>Pretending is easy—it’s facing the <strong><em>truth</em></strong> that’s so damn <strong>hard</strong>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a long-damned time, now, since Dean has thought about the <em>‘Shtringa,’</em> that almost killed, Sammy.</p><p>And an even longer passage of time, since the monster in question, almost killed, Sammy.</p><p>Dean considers that incident to be the one that first made, Dad, look at him differently. As a lesser son than he was before. Dean remembers, Dad, leaving him and Sammy with Pastor Jim for a long stretch after that.</p><p>It’s the incident that made him prove to himself—<em>to Dad</em>—time and time again <em>(especially in his youth)</em> that he was fit and able to look after, Sammy, good and proper.</p><p>So, when, Dad, gave him the coordinates, four days ago, all Dean could think about was how he’d fucked-up, as a kid.</p><p>How he’d almost gotten Sammy killed, ‘cause he was a reckless, idiot.</p><p>He’d needed to stretch his legs. Needed to take a break from Sammy and his clingy, <strong>needy</strong> ways … and just get some damn air … but, that stupid mistake is still one he cringes about.</p><p>And, Dad, gave him a chance to make it right—and he has, now.</p><p>He took that child-hungry monster, down.</p><p>Even though he had to use another kid as bait to do it—he’d got it <strong>done</strong>.</p><p>It’s been about three-or-so odd weeks since Sammy tried to, use his words and his touch, to seduce him last, and Dean <em>(when he’d finally told Sammy the truth about the ‘Shtringa’ last night)</em> has noticed that Sammy’s getting back to looking at him with these<em> ‘kicked-puppy,’ </em>eyes that make him want to forgo his self-preservation and <strong>crawl</strong> into Sammy’s bed.</p><p>He’s told, Sammy, a million-and-one times that he doesn’t want to keep doing this <em>thing</em> anymore, but nothing seems to hit home in Sam.</p><p>There is still this overwhelming emotional pull that hovers in the air between them—and it <strong>never</strong> seems to go away.</p><p>It’s <em>unbearable.</em></p><p>Despite the monster being gone, it drudged up a lot of shit for, Dean.</p><p>Shit that’s been buried in him, since his childhood.</p><p>Dean has the shower running—the water pouring down onto the tile with a constant splatter—but Dean is poised over the counter, glancing at his expression in the mirror.</p><p>He’s forked an entire apple pie into his mouth and thrown the empty tin away, with disgust on his face. He’s even made a slice—<em>maybe three or four</em>—into the skin of his arms and is still leaking tears over the whole ordeal.</p><p>Dean still can’t believe that Sammy almost died ‘cause of him. ‘Cause he was a careless little shit.</p><p>Yeah, it was years ago, but the fear remains the same—the horror, the shame of it … all remains the same.</p><p>Dean’s lost track of how long he’s just been standing at this stupid mirror—<em>staring at himself.</em> Lost track of how long he’s left the shower stream raining down for an excuse—for plain old-fashioned noise.</p><p>And … maybe he’s zoned out a bit.</p><p>Gone a little outta his head, ‘cause the next thing he knows, Sammy, is here and there is a crinkle in his brow. And his arm is being lifted, straight up to Sammy’s waiting lips, and the blood smeared on his skin <em>(from his cutting)</em> is being lapped away by Sammy’s tongue.</p><p>And kisses are planted, everywhere. All over the sinfully marked epidermis.</p><p>“Come <em>back</em> to me, De …” Sammy is whispering with his softest tone.</p><p>Dean whimpers when he feels the slake of Sammy’s palms, ride up the underside of his flannel. Pushing up the soft material, while rubbing and grazing the skin underneath.</p><p>It’s <strong><em>touch</em></strong> … but it might as well be <strong>poison</strong> … ‘cause, Dean, weakens and nearly crumples to his knees upon feeling this.</p><p>Sammy breaks his fall, by tumbling down <strong>with</strong> him.</p><p>And Dean finds himself on this cold, hard bathroom tile, with Sammy pressed to his side and ample, soft lips at his neck. Brushing across his stubble.</p><p>Dean takes a minute … maybe an hour … <em>(he can never tell time when he’s like this …)</em> but he finds his temporarily absent voice, again.</p><p>“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Sammy … ‘M right here …”</p><p>Sammy lets out this little sob that startles, Dean, a bit.</p><p>Sitting up to brace himself against the closest wall, Dean, feels the heavy weight of his limbs and glimpses the kissed-clean scabs all-along his forearms.</p><p>Sammy’s greenish-brown eyes steal into his and he can plainly see the anguish in them—<em>along with this distinct fear.</em></p><p>“You weren’t <strong>here</strong>, again …” Sammy breathes. “You wouldn’t <em>answer</em> me …”</p><p>Dean feels a stab of guilt for worrying Sammy and realizes his mind probably needed a breather after everything that’s gone on, this past year. Enough to completely shut down and shut off, for a time.</p><p>“I’m <strong>okay</strong>, Sammy,” he promises.</p><p>Sammy gives him a look that screams disbelief, but Dean tries his best to put it out of his mind—‘cause this whole lapse of time has been too close for comfort.</p><p>Way, too, close—and he needs to stop this thing, before it’s taken too far, again.</p><p>So, Dean, kisses Sam’s forehead and forces his legs to stand and support him.</p><p>“I just needed a break is all, Sammy. No big deal,” Dean brushes this off and Sammy continues to look at him with a disbelieving look.</p><p>“You just zoned out, Dean. For a whole damn <strong>hour</strong>. I thought you …” Sam catches himself and braces himself against the wall to stand and face Dean. “I didn’t know <em>what</em> I was gonna find on the other side of that door …” Sam gestures to the wide-open bathroom door and Dean’s heart flutters, uneasily.</p><p>“Hey, Sammy—”</p><p>“Whatever, Dean. You’re <strong>fine</strong>, right?” Sam interrupts, with a snarky tone, “That’s what you <em>always</em> say, isn’t it? You’re fucking <strong>fine</strong>?”</p><p>Without waiting for an answer, Sammy, walks out the bathroom door, and Dean is left feeling shitty and gross. Just like he always is, when Sammy’s <strong>pissed</strong> at him.</p><p>And he knows what Sammy meant—<em>what Sammy feared</em>—and somehow, that hurts worse than anything else he could’ve said.</p><p><em>So. Much.</em> <em>Worse</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxi. twists in the substrate.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Everything was okay for, Dean, when he told Sammy they weren’t gonna do anything with each other, again.</p><p>It was all friggin’ spectacular—<em>and tolerable</em>—for him to not have to look at Sammy the way he did when they were horny, <em>need-driven</em> kids.</p><p>But that was <em>before,</em> Sammy, showed interest in an actual chick, again.</p><p>Seeing Sammy eyeing a pretty, <em>young</em> thing hit differently for him, now.</p><p>It took quite a few days for Dean to work out the <em>‘why,’ </em>of it but he finally figured out that it was ‘cause of the night they’d shared when they both thought, Dean, was gonna <strong>die</strong>.</p><p>Despite his slamming the door on what they had, Dean, is still fairly attached to the idea of belonging to, Sammy.</p><p>Even if he can’t voice it out loud <em>(and, hell, even if he’s the one that pushed Sammy to show an interest in chicks, again, in the first damn place)</em> it still hurts like a bitch for him to see, Sammy, smile while he looks at a smokin’ hot chick.</p><p>God, it just … it does <em>something</em> to him. Twists him all outta sorts and makes it so he’s gotta drink half-a-bottle of cheap whiskey, just to wipe the <em>image</em> outta his head.</p><p>It’s not fair, ‘cause he is the one that keeps stopping Sammy from crossing anymore lines when they’re <strong>alone</strong>, but … well, it’s been a little over a week, since he saw Sammy <strong><em>kiss</em></strong> Sarah, before they left her in the dust, and he <strong><em>still</em></strong> can’t get it outta his head.</p><p>And if <em>that</em> weren’t bad enough … now … now, <em>Dad,</em> is back in the mix.</p><p>Sammy promised that he wouldn’t <strong>kill</strong>, Dad. Dean forced him to promise and so far, … besides a couple <strong>snarky</strong> comments and awkward pauses whenever they are all in a room together … things have been <strong>okay</strong>.</p><p> He wouldn’t go so far as to say things have been <strong>amicable</strong>, but they’re not stabbing of shooting each other, or even falling to blows, come to that.</p><p>So … that’s, <strong>something,</strong> at least.</p><p>They secured the <em>legendary</em> Colt from a nest of vampires, at least.</p><p>So, <em>that’s</em> something, too.</p><p>Dean has had to devour no less than <strong><em>two</em></strong> whole pies, every day for the last four days that Dad has been with them, to keep himself from imploding, at the seams.</p><p>His nerves are <strong>real</strong>, bad.</p><p><em>Beyond,</em> bad, even.</p><p>They are just all over the <em>damned</em> place, ‘cause he’s waiting for the inevitable to happen. For Sammy to blow up at, Dad, or Dad to start shit with, Sammy.</p><p>Either way, Dean, knows it’s <strong>coming</strong>—Sammy can’t hold his tongue, <em>forever</em> <em>… </em>and, God … Dean is scared to <em>death</em> to face that moment, when it inevitably comes.</p><p>Dad is <em>upset</em>, today.</p><p>Upset ‘cause Caleb just called to inform them that Pastor Jim is dead. Not that he can actually blame, Dad, for being upset. Dean can’t wrap his head around the news, <em>himself … </em></p><p>Pastor Jim was like another <em>parent</em> to him and Sammy. Much like, Bobby.</p><p>The man was <strong>trusted</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Loved.</em>
</p><p>Hell, Dean, can’t believe he’s actually <strong>gone</strong>. Like, dead, and never coming back, <strong>gone</strong>. The people he can trust <em>(aside from Dad) </em>while on a hunt, are few and far between, but Pastor Jim was right up there at the top of that list.</p><p>Even though, Dean, <strong>detests</strong> religion—<em>disbelieves the bible in every way</em>—he never viewed Pastor Jim as strictly a <em>‘man of the cloth.’</em> And never <strong>would</strong>.</p><p>Dean spent the past couple hours scouring through records, <strong>trying</strong> to seek out any family with a six-month-old infant. The stress is high, as is the tension, but <em>(for the moment)</em> Dean is secure in the fact that all three of them are preoccupied with searching through countless files <em>(in separate locations)</em> and therefore doesn’t have to worry about Sammy and Dad killing each other.</p><p>With a sigh, Dean, sets <em>(what must be) </em>his hundredth file aside and squeezes his eyes.</p><p>He’s drank at least a <strong>liter</strong> of coffee trying to keep himself from falling asleep, and is almost through the roof with relief when he gets a phone call from, Sammy, telling him to meet back at their hotel.</p><p>Dean hightails it out of the hospital so fast that he almost <strong>forgets</strong> to put Dad’s leather jacket back on.</p><p>By the time he drives, Baby, back to their motel, Dad, is pulling up, too, and Sammy is already inside.</p><p>The instant, Dean, sees Sammy clutching his head he <strong><em>knows</em></strong> what this is about … just <strong><em>knows</em></strong> it.</p><p>And he’s been keeping it all from, Dad, <em>for good reason.</em></p><p>Honestly, Dean, doesn’t know what Dad will <strong>do</strong> with this new information about Sammy and he isn’t all that sure, he wants to find <em>out,</em> either. But, Sammy, is already starting to tell Dad about it and Dean sits and waits for the <em>fall-out.</em></p><p>And sure enough, there <strong><em>is</em></strong> one.</p><p><em>“Visions?</em> Why the hell didn’t you tell me Sam’s been having visions, Dean?” this curbed-edge in Dad’s tone has Dean’s heart beating a mile-a-minute and he has to breathe in deep, even-keeled breaths to render himself <strong>calm</strong>.</p><p>If he handles this moment <strong>wrong</strong> … well … it might be the catalyst Sammy needs to start <em>shit</em> with, Dad, and he can’t have that. Not <strong>today</strong> of all days …</p><p>“How, exactly was I supposed to tell you? You haven’t been here, Dad. It’s just been me and Sammy …” he is treading lightly, praying to, God, this doesn’t all go <strong>south</strong>, like he fears it <em>might.</em></p><p>Dad stands with this expression on his face that chills Dean to the <strong>bone</strong> and says, “You pick up the damn phone and you <strong><em>call</em></strong> me! That’s <strong>how</strong>, Dean. Your brother has visions and you don’t even <strong><em>try</em></strong> to call?”</p><p>That strikes a <em>chord</em> in, Dean. And suddenly, he doesn’t give a friggin’ <strong>fuck</strong> if, <em>WWIII</em> starts, right here, in this hotel room … he’s <strong><em>doing</em></strong> this.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“It hasn’t exactly been <strong><em>easy</em></strong> to get you on the phone, Dad!” Dean snaps, “I called you, how <strong>many</strong> times?! Huh?!” he continues to shout, “Begged! <strong>Pleaded</strong> for you to goddamned answer and you <strong>didn’t</strong>! You <em>refused!</em> So, no! I didn’t <strong>call</strong> you! ‘Cause I saw no <strong>point</strong> in it!”</p><p>Dad is <strong>seething</strong>.</p><p>Dean can see it on his face—<em>in his eyes, especially</em>—and this is the first time,<em> (since the night he tried to end everything)</em> that he’s raised his voice to, Dad, like this—since he’s <strong><em>defended</em></strong>, himself.</p><p>Since he’s been <strong><em>this</em></strong> livid …</p><p>But it’s the way Dad’s tone <strong>oozed</strong> this sarcasm that really got to him … There was this <em>accusation</em> in his voice that said <em>‘Why didn’t you take care of Sammy better?’ </em>and Dean wasn’t gonna sit here and take it … Not when it comes to Sammy’s well-being.</p><p>‘Cause it all comes back to one thing and one thing, only: <em>Sammy is Dean’s kid.</em></p><p>Dean friggin’ raised him up to be a <strong>man</strong> … Not, Dad. Dean would <strong>die</strong> for Sammy—<em>in a heartbeat</em>—and Dad just tried to accuse him of not doing what’s <strong>best</strong> for Sammy?!</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>That was, <strong>too</strong>, damn far.</p><p>This is a hill, Dean, is prepared to <strong>die</strong> on. The <em>‘Protect Sammy,’</em> hill is his whole damned life. His whole damned <strong>existence</strong>—<em>his reason for being.</em></p><p>No one, else’s.</p><p><strong>Just</strong>, Dean’s.</p><p>“Boy, you better check you damn tone,” Dad bellows and steps toward Dean with this look that has his stomach in knots.</p><p>It’s a look he’s <em>all-too familiar</em> with.</p><p>It’s the <strong>same</strong> look, Dad, used to give when Dean was heavily drunk, and on his back <strong>under</strong>, Dad.</p><p>Dean’s eyes fill with tears and he has to fight them back—<em>he is not gonna have a breakdown</em>—<strong><em>he</em></strong> <strong><em>can’t</em></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Not right, now.</em>
</p><p>“No, Dad! You <strong>left</strong> me! You <strong><em>abandoned</em></strong> me!” Dean shouts, “After <em>everything</em> I’ve done … after all the <strong>shit</strong> I’ve done to keep you alive … to … to keep you <strong>good</strong>, you really up and <em>left</em> me, alone! To take care of, <strong>Sammy</strong>, by myself! To friggin’ make <strong><em>all</em></strong> the choices!” Dean has been keeping this all in, but not anymore. He can’t anymore—it’s crushing him. It’s destroying him.</p><p>“You didn’t even come when I nearly <strong>died</strong>, Dad! If it weren’t for, Sammy, I’d be <strong>dead</strong>! And you didn’t even call me <em>back!”</em></p><p>That proved to, Dean, that Dad <strong>can’t</strong> love him, anymore—if he <em>ever</em> loved him at all … That the man is <strong><em>incapable</em></strong> of it.</p><p>Sammy, Dad, <strong><em>loves.</em></strong></p><p>Dean is just the fucked-up one. The damaged, broken-down, <em>fuck-up.</em></p><p>The scum that <strong>ruined</strong>, Sammy …</p><p>Dad is eying him with this even more <strong>feral</strong> expression on his face. Dean can tell that Dad’s been drinking <em>(not a lot, but some) </em>and it should terrify him to confront Dad when he’s been drinking, but for some reason … he’s <strong>immune</strong> to that fear, right now.</p><p>Just, so, immune and <em>tired</em> of it …</p><p>Maybe, Dean, is just <strong>tired</strong> of feeling it.</p><p>This weight of all this damned guilt and inferiority all the friggin’ time.</p><p>It’s <em>soul-crushing.</em></p><p>“I was tracking, damned, Yellow-eyes! Not that I need to <strong>explain</strong> myself to you! I just don’t have the <em>time</em> to run all over the damn country, at your whim!”</p><p>“I almost, <strong>died</strong>, Dad! It wasn’t a <em>fucking</em> whim!”</p><p>Dad charges forward and grips Dean’s <em>collar</em>. Slamming him <strong>hard</strong> against the closest wall. This livid, rage-filled, compulsiveness stirring in him. Dean experiences the wind getting knocked outta him, and tries not to cringe, but does, <strong>anyway</strong>.</p><p>‘Cause he <strong>knows</strong> what comes next … what <strong><em>always</em></strong> comes next …</p><p>Sammy had been watching all of this in silence, but Dean could see this bitterness—<em>this rage</em>—finally break through.</p><p>Sammy charges forward and yanks, Dad, off of him and they <strong>wrestle</strong> around, while Dean struggles to reclaim his breath.</p><p>“I oughta <strong>kill</strong> you, Dad!” Sammy roars, throwing punches, fighting for the upper-hand, while Dean watches in shocked detachment.</p><p>“Get off me, <em>Boy!</em> This is between your <strong>brother</strong> an’ me!” Dad throws, Sammy, off and they both stand, feet apart, eyeing each other up and down.</p><p>“No, actually, Dad, it’s between <strong><em>all</em></strong> of us!” Sammy snaps back. Panting, with his fists raised.</p><p>“Sammy … Sammy, <em>don’t …”</em> Dean <strong>tries</strong> to stop him—tries to stop his worst fear from happening, but it’s too <strong>late</strong>.</p><p>“No, Dean. This ends <em>now!</em> I’m sick and tired of him shoving all of his <strong>crap</strong> on us—<em>on you!</em> And getting <strong>away</strong> with it!”</p><p>Dean’s hands clench into fists and he wants to be anywhere, but here, all of the sudden.</p><p>“What’re you talking ‘bout, Sam? What <em>crap?”</em> Dad’s tone is back to it’s dangerous, curved-edge, and Dean doesn’t know <strong>what’s</strong> gonna happen.</p><p>“I know, Dad. I know <em>everything,” </em>Sammy spits out. “I know how you fucking <strong>raped</strong> him. I know how you ripped him <strong>apart</strong> from the inside out, for <em>years!</em> How he <strong>protected</strong> me, ‘cause you were gonna start in on <strong>me</strong>, next.”</p><p>Dad’s whole expression shifts on a dime. His whole presence is now, <strong>unreadable</strong>. <em>Terrifying.</em></p><p>Then … Dad, <strong><em>laughs</em></strong><em>.</em></p><p>It’s a <strong>dark</strong> chuckle, almost one that <em>cuts</em> to the bone, and Dean shivers from the <strong>tingles</strong> racing up his spine …</p><p>Sammy holds his ground and squares his jaw.</p><p>“Is <em>that</em> what he told you?” Dad looks between, Sammy and him, and Dean’s eyes lower.</p><p>“I never <strong>threatened</strong> you, Sammy. And I didn’t <strong>force</strong>, Dean, into anything,” Dad says, with a cold even, tone. “You know … Dean climbed onto <strong><em>my</em></strong> lap that first time. The night before we came and picked you up from Bobby’s. You remember that, Sammy?” Dad asks, quirking up a brow.</p><p>Sammy looks from Dean to Dad, and Dean can’t meet Sammy’s eyes … Dean doesn’t wanna see the disappointment in Sammy’s eyes when the rest of what he didn’t tell Sammy comes out.</p><p>“You <em>aren’t</em> gonna turn me against him, <strong>ever</strong> again, Dad. Whatever he did or <em>didn’t</em> do, Dean did it to <strong>protect</strong> me. He did it to keep <strong><em>you</em></strong> from hurting me.”</p><p>Dad’s smile fades, but he keeps his stance that same. “Dean isn’t like <strong>you</strong>, Sammy. He’s like <em>me.”</em></p><p>“No, Dad. <em>Neither</em> of us are like <strong>you</strong>,” Sam persists, “You raped your own, <em>son!</em> You’re the one that <strong>destroyed</strong>, Dean, first! If anyone is to blame for <strong>any</strong> of the shit that’s happened to him, it’s <em>you!”</em></p><p>“Is that what you think, Sam?” Dad panders, and Dean realizes too late, what Dad is gonna say next. “’Cause, that’s where you’re <strong>wrong</strong>, Boy. I’m <strong><em>not</em></strong> the one that first had my <em>way</em> with, Dean. No. If that fault lies at any of our feet, it’s <em>yours,</em> Sammy.”</p><p>Sam swallows around a lump and Dean starts to hyperventilate in his throat. He doesn’t <strong><em>blame</em></strong> Sammy for that <em>first</em> time … Jake is <strong><em>not</em></strong> Sammy’s fault … Jake is <strong><em>Dean’s</em></strong> fault … for being careless with the <em>money</em> that time …</p><p>He could never <strong>blame</strong>, Sammy …</p><p>“He never told you why you were sent to Bobby’s in the first place, did he, Sammy?” Dad taunts, and Sam stares him down.</p><p>“What the hell are you <em>talking</em> about? Of course, he did. You didn’t want me to be so <em>attached</em>. You thought I was getting, too, <strong>close</strong> to him.”</p><p>Dad shrugs. “That was <em>one</em> of the reasons. But the real reason, the main reason, was that Dean was <em>‘Turnin’ Tricks.’</em> Let some man hold him down and <em>take</em> from him, for cash. The way he told it, <em>you</em> spent <strong>all</strong> the money, an’ he needed to feed you, somehow. So, I took you <em>away</em> from him. ‘Cause it was apparent that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep <strong>you</strong> fed. An’ I couldn’t <em>have</em> that.”</p><p>Sam lowered his fists and stared at Dean with this expression that made, Dean, want to crawl in a friggin’ hole and <em>die.</em></p><p><em>“Jake,”</em> Sammy says that name and Dean has to bite back a wave of sick in his throat.</p><p>“That’s his name, isn’t it?” Sam presses and Dean doesn’t answer—<em>can’t answer …</em></p><p>
  <em>This can’t be happening …</em>
</p><p>“You used to call out that name in your sleep. And when I asked you who it was, you got <strong>so</strong> upset …”</p><p>Dean wipes a couple tears that shed down his cheeks and looks to, Dad, <em>utterly broken.</em></p><p>“Why’d you have to go an’ tell him <strong>that</strong>?” Dean snaps.</p><p>Dad doesn’t answer—<em>and the next second</em>—Sammy’s phone rings. Snapping them all outta themselves.</p><p>And, it’s <strong>Meg</strong> on the other end.</p><p>And she asks for, <em>Dad.</em></p><p>Dean watches, shaking and trembling, while Dad tells the demon that he’ll be on his way with the Colt, <em>(leaves the real Colt with them) </em>and packs up his things.</p><p>Hauling ass outta their motel, leaving them both, behind, to protect the <em>family</em> about to be ripped apart, tonight.</p><p>And, Dean, … he can’t even <strong>look</strong> Sammy in the eyes, as they pack up their own shit and head for, Baby.</p><p> </p><p>xxxx</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t wanna <em>talk</em> about it,” Dean says, the instant they’ve parked outside the couple’s house.</p><p>It’s taken him this long to even speak, since that whole <em>cosmically-bad</em> eruption, back there.</p><p>But, Sammy, has been side-eying him for the entire ten-minute drive, just <strong><em>waiting</em></strong> to ask him about it.</p><p>And Dean <strong>can’t</strong> … he just can’t, right now.</p><p>“De, why didn’t you <strong>ever</strong> tell me—”</p><p>“’Cause it wasn’t somethin’ I <em>wanted</em> you to know, alright?!” Dean erupts. “An’ I knew you’d just <strong>blame</strong> yourself an’ I didn’t need that, Sammy. What happened … it was on <strong>me</strong>, not <em>you.</em> I was in charge while Dad was gone. <strong><em>I’m</em></strong> the big brother … it was my responsibility. I needed to keep you fed an’ we had no more money. So, I did what I <strong>had</strong> to. <em>End of story.”</em></p><p>Sammy looks at him with these broken eyes and Dean knows this <strong>isn’t</strong> over.</p><p>With, Sammy, nothing is <strong>ever</strong>, over.</p><p>‘Cause, Sammy, can’t <em>ever</em> let anything be.</p><p>“So, Dad was telling the truth then? He’s not the <em>first</em> one that—”</p><p>“No, Sammy. Dad <strong>wasn’t</strong> the first, alright?” Dean shudders at the memory. Trying not to let this hurt sink in any deeper within the parameters of his bones.</p><p><em>“De …”</em> Sam reaches out and touches the line of Dean’s jaw, before he can think to stop him. And it’s <strong>comforting</strong>—and ignites so many emotions that Dean <strong><em>tries</em></strong> to keep hidden. But it’s no use when, Sammy, <strong>touches</strong> him … ‘cause, Sammy, is still the only thing on this <strong>whole</strong> planet that can make him <em>feel.</em></p><p>And, Dean, <strong>does</strong> feel.</p><p>He feels from his head to his toes … these tingly vibrations of energy. And it’s too much and <em>not</em> enough … and he wants it to <strong>stop</strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Desperately.</em>
</p><p>“Don’t, Sammy. Please,” Dean suppresses a wave of tears, and bats Sammy’s <strong>hand</strong> away.</p><p>“Is that why you let, <em>Dad …?”</em> Sammy trails off, clearly wanting to ask, but not wanting to <strong>finish</strong> the question.</p><p>Dean wants this conversation over and done with, so he can get back to watching this stupid house—so he answers the half-finished question.</p><p>“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean relents, “I figured I was already ruined, so what the hell did it matter, anyway? I would’ve done <em>anything</em> to get you back with me, Sammy.”</p><p>Sammy’s eyes well with tears, and Dean has to look away from him. His stomach is turning, desperate for a <strong>pie</strong> to shovel down right now, but he <em>can’t.</em></p><p>Not in front of, <em>Sammy …</em></p><p>“You were <strong>eleven</strong>, Dean …” Sammy voices.</p><p>“Yeah? Well, I didn’t have the luxury of bein’ a kid, now, did I? Not when I <strong>had</strong> a kid of my own to look after,” he breathes, barely keeping himself together.</p><p>“De … I <strong>never</strong> asked you—”</p><p>“You didn’t have to <strong>ask</strong>, Sammy. You were <strong><em>mine. </em></strong>That’s all there was to it,” Dean states, firmly, “An’ you’re <strong>always</strong> gonna be my kid, Sammy. <strong>My</strong> responsibility.”</p><p>Sammy wipes away tears and Dean finds himself pinching his wrist for strength. Trying like <strong>hell</strong> to ground himself, down here, in the moment.</p><p>“I never wanted to be a <strong>burden</strong> on you, De.”</p><p>“An’ you <em>weren’t</em>, Sammy. Hey, c’mon. I wouldn’t trade you for the <strong>world</strong>, okay?”</p><p>“You must’ve been so <strong>hurt</strong> … so, <em>alone</em> after … after it <strong>happened</strong> and Dad … Dad took me <em>away</em> from you …”</p><p>Dean stiffens and tries to keep down his sick—it’s tickling the back of his throat as he’s forced to think about Jake, again. And about the dark patch of time where he struggled every day, wondering if Dad would <em>ever</em> let him have, Sammy, back.</p><p>It’s not something he likes to <strong>think</strong> about.</p><p>It <strong>never</strong> will be.</p><p>
  <em>“Sam …”</em>
</p><p>“I wish I could’ve <em>been</em> there. I wish I could’ve <strong>helped</strong> … maybe then …”</p><p>Dean’s stomach twists.</p><p>“Maybe then, <strong>what</strong>, Sam?” Dean presses.</p><p>“Maybe then you wouldn’t have seen yourself <em>that</em> way. Seen yourself as this <strong>damaged</strong>, ruined thing … I would’ve <em>touched</em> you, everyday …” Sammy reaches out and brushes a hand across, Dean’s, chest, just over his heart.</p><p>And it stirs him up inside.</p><p>His crotch tightens and skin radiates with immeasurable heat and urgency—and he has to clear his head to stop himself from leaning over and claiming his Sammy’s lips.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>“You don’t understand … it took me the whole time that we were apart, to be able to be touched without <em>feeling,</em> <strong><em>that</em></strong><em>,</em> man, Sammy. Without damn near jumpin’ outta my skin, or crawlin’ outta it,” he describes, trying to get Sammy to comprehend, just how damaged he was, after.</p><p>It couldn’t’ve gone away with a couple <em>touches</em> and kisses … not even from, Sammy.</p><p>“The night I …” Dean chokes on his emotions. “The night I gave myself to, Dad, to get you back, I … That’s when I learned to shut it off … to stop <em>feelin’</em> touch. To stop feelin’ <strong>anything</strong>, at all.”</p><p>That’s a realization that Dean’s never had up ‘til now. He’s known there was a point when he stopped being able to feel with others, like he does with, Sammy. But he never realized <em>(until right now)</em> that it was <strong>that</strong> night, specifically.</p><p>That turning point, where he just <em>couldn’t</em> do it …</p><p>That he’s never truly known any other’s touch that wasn’t Sammy’s, since Jake—<em>since his first …</em></p><p>Sammy looks at him with this curious gaze.</p><p>“You said you could feel <strong>mine</strong>, De,” Sammy breathes out in a whisper.</p><p>“You’re <strong>different</strong>, Sammy. You’ve always been different …” Dean sighs, “I’ve never been able to keep <em>strong</em> around you. You make me <strong>vulnerable</strong>. Always have.”</p><p>“I would’ve saved you. I still would’ve <strong>tried</strong>, Dean.”</p><p>“I know you would’ve, Sammy,” Dean rasps. “But I’ve <em>never</em> been worth all that.”</p><p>“You are to <strong>me</strong>, Dean,” Sammy says with these fierce eyes that have, Dean, reeling.</p><p>Dean closes his eyes and <strong>wipes</strong> away the tears. Forcing himself to push Sammy’s hand away, ‘cause they don’t have <em>time</em> for this. They have to be vigilant—<em>the demon could attack at any time.</em></p><p>“Is that good enough an explanation for you, Sammy? Can we get <strong>back</strong> to it?” Dean shoves his feelings back away and Sammy nods his head, for once, he doesn’t look like he’s gonna push this issue any further.</p><p>Dean is silently grateful and turns his eyes back toward the house—<em>and waits for the demon to show itself.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>xxxxx</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>The next day, Dean, is worked into a frenzy with his heart pounding in his good ear the whole morning.</p><p>Dad’s been taken … he could be dead already and all Dean can think about is the last time they were all together …</p><p>The things that were screamed—<em>yelled</em>—<em>raged</em>—and it tears him up inside.</p><p>Dad thinks he <strong>hates</strong> him. Dad thinks he will never forgive him for any of it … And Dean hates that he let himself get worked up.</p><p>Hates, that he stood up to Dad right before they started this whole <em>deadly-ass</em> mission.</p><p>But, most of all, Dean, hates that he has to go back to the one place he’s been avoiding for over <em>three</em> years, now.</p><p>Bobby’s junkyard lot kicks up dust, as Dean pulls Baby up to the house. It takes him close to five minutes to gather up his courage, and <em>knock</em> on, Bobby’s door, Sam, at his side.</p><p>Bobby opens his door and Dean can see how wide his eyes are.</p><p><em>“Dean …? Sam …?” </em>he breathes, glancing between the two of them, with apparent shock.</p><p>Bobby has Dean in a bone-crushing hug in a second and he shakily breathes, trying to hold himself together.</p><p>The last time he was here, he promised to call once a month and never did. But it’s the conversation they had that’s caused him to avoid this place.</p><p>When Bobby’s finished hugging them both and ushering them through the door, inside, he finally mentions Dean’s promise.</p><p>“Thought I told ya, I wanted to hear your voice once a month, <em>Dean,”</em> he mentions with a quirked brow.</p><p>Sam shoots Dean a quizzical look, but Dean just shrugs it off, trying to keep himself, together.</p><p>“I’ve been <strong>busy</strong>, Bobby.” It’s a lame-ass excuse, and Dean knows it, but he doesn’t wanna go into it, right now.</p><p>Not with Sammy <em>watching</em> them.</p><p>“Yeah, right. Too busy to call for <strong>three</strong> years?”</p><p>Dean’s stomach churns and he decides to dive right into <strong><em>why</em></strong> they’re here, rather than answer—and thankfully, Bobby, doesn’t keep pushing for an actual <em>(reasonable)</em> answer.</p><p>Instead, he gets right down to the business-end of helping them out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Bobby didn’t press the whole time they were there.</p><p>
  <em>Not, once.</em>
</p><p>Not, while they captured and exorcised, Meg. Nor while they said their <strong>goodbyes</strong> and went after, Dad.</p><p>Dean has been beside himself, through all of it. Trying to get, Dad, back.</p><p>Trying to do right, by Dad—and when they get to Sunrise Apartments and pull, Dad, out … well … that thing inside of him, was not, Dad.</p><p>Not, Dad, as <em>Dean</em> knew him.</p><p>And Dean’s looked into that <strong>soul</strong> a thousand times.</p><p>Known, Dad, inside and out for his whole damn <em>life …</em></p><p>The soul that was inside, Dad, was the Yellow-Eyed <strong><em>thing</em></strong> they’ve been hunting for a lifetime.</p><p>
  <em>For Sammy’s lifetime, anyway.</em>
</p><p>And, Dean, <strong>can’t</strong> shoot it … ‘cause he’s not <strong>sure</strong>.</p><p>And then it’s, too late.</p><p>He’s <strong>pinned</strong> to the wall and nearly <em>killed</em> by the thing—pleads for Dad <strong>not</strong> to let it happen … and Dad fights his way out. Fights his way <strong>back</strong>.</p><p>But with, Dean, half-unconscious—hovering in the between of <strong>wakefulness</strong> and sleep, he spots Sammy with the gun—holding it on Dad … <em>on the demon. </em></p><p>But, Sammy, doesn’t shoot, either. Not even when Dad asks him, too.</p><p>Not even when, Dad, <strong>begs</strong> him to do it.</p><p>Dean thought, Sammy, would’ve killed, Dad, in a heartbeat, for <em>everything</em> he’s done, up to this point … but … <em>Sammy doesn’t.</em></p><p>Maybe it’s ‘cause, Dad is still <strong>Dad</strong>, even to Sammy … Maybe there is <strong>another</strong> reason, but … Sammy goes for the <strong>leg</strong>, instead.</p><p>So, Sammy, takes Dad’s <em>fury</em> in the car. While, Dean, listens—drifting in and out in the <strong>back</strong>. Not catching words … feeling his blood-loss, too, profoundly to do much more than <strong><em>wait</em></strong> to get to the hospital …</p><p>And then—<em>Baby is thrown with a lurch</em>—and everything goes black.</p><p><strong><em>Black</em></strong><em> <strong>forever</strong></em> <em>…</em> or at least for a long-ass <em>time.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>When, Dean, opens his eyes, again, it’s to lots of pain.</p><p>Extensive, <strong>exhausting</strong>, pain.</p><p>It’s not the <em>worst</em> he’s known, but it’s bad enough. He feels like he’s been <strong>through</strong> the ringer … and it takes a while for all his <em>memories</em> to come back.</p><p>Sammy’s staring down at him, with these tears in his eyes.</p><p>And he feels the sheets of a hospital bed, under him. It feels strange to be back here—<em>and this time</em>—for a whole different reason than the last …</p><p>It’s <strong>not</strong> his heart—<em>not his own self-inflicted scars</em>—but ‘cause that Yellow-Eyed Bastard tried to kill him … and then the car accident …</p><p>Dean remembers feeling the lurch under, Baby. Her tires scream … <em>the collision of metal …</em></p><p>Dean swallows around a lump and feels Sammy’s eyes on him, even more <strong>profoundly</strong>.</p><p>“I’m alright, Sammy,” he whispers, voice crackling as he tries to hold himself together. But he’s all fractured and broken-feeling.</p><p>Especially, when he sees this <em>shattered</em> look in his little brother’s eyes.</p><p>“Thought I’d <strong>lost</strong> you, De …” Sammy whispers back, and there’s this damning <strong>tightness</strong> in Dean’s chest, that has him lean into the hug his Sammy is suddenly giving him.</p><p>It makes him think about how close he was to being away from, Sammy, forever. And, that <strong>hurts</strong>.</p><p>It hurts to think about, now, that he’s had Sammy with him, again. Like this <em>staple</em> of his being—<em>his anchor. </em></p><p>“I’m right here, Sammy. I ain’t <em>goin’</em> nowhere,” he promises, and it’s like something unspoken passes between them. Something that makes, Dean’s chest tighten and skin radiate static-electricity.</p><p>Sammy pulls back—<em>and Dad is suddenly in the doorway.</em></p><p>And it feels <strong>different</strong>. The air around, Dad … it’s <strong>indescribable</strong>, but Dean feels it, right away.</p><p>Something is <strong>off</strong>.</p><p>Dad doesn’t fight with, Sammy. Just <strong>apologizes</strong> … for all of it …</p><p>Apologizes for not being a <strong>better</strong> father, then sends Sammy away, so that it’s just the two of them.</p><p>And something in, Dean, <strong>burns</strong>. ‘Cause he knows this <em>ain’t</em> right.</p><p>This whole situation … <em>none of it is right.</em></p><p>Dad tells him this story … about when he was a little kid. About, how he used to <em>climb</em> up on his lap, touch his cheek and tell Dad that everything was gonna be alright, whenever he would get caught up in the <em>horror</em> of what he’d witnessed … well, Dean, knows here and now that something isn’t just wrong—it’s painfully <em>twistedly</em> off-kilter.</p><p>‘Cause, Dad, has never mentioned the past. Not like this. Not without, Dean, bringing it up first and dragging any sordid details outta him.</p><p>But that … <em>that memory. </em></p><p>Dean, still has it.</p><p> He’s crawled into Dad’s lap a great many times, now, but back then … back when he used to tell, Dad, everything was okay … well … it was when Sammy was in diapers. Before, Dad, ever touched him under his clothes, or kissed him like he used to kiss, Mom.</p><p>It was when things were <em>natural</em> between them.</p><p>When they were <strong><em>just</em></strong> father and son.</p><p>
  <em>Nothing more. Nothing less.</em>
</p><p>Nothing broken between them—<em>nothing splintered.</em></p><p>Then, Dad, is apologizing … actually <strong>apologizing</strong> … for not being the one to say such a thing to, Dean … and well … that’s even more upsetting than the story being brought up.</p><p>“I’m <strong>proud</strong> of you, Dean. You raised, Sammy, Dean. And you took care of me, in ways no son should ever take care of their dad,” Dad admits, “and you never complained, about any of it.”</p><p>Dean feels his stomach knot up in tight bundles and has to close his mouth to keep from feeling <strong><em>it</em></strong>—<em>the shame</em>—<em>the guilt</em>—of what he’s done over the years.</p><p>Even though it’s been over three years, since he last let, Dad, between his sheets, Dean, knows what it felt like that first time he offered, himself. That first time, he used these sick, overbearing charms on Dad in the name of being seen in Dad’s eyes.</p><p>He’d wanted Dad’s love—<em>Dad’s touch</em>—so badly once, that he’d initiated their depraved sessions in the first place. Yes, it was to get Sammy back. But a piece of him, had wanted Dad to want him—to love him—<em>and that’s how he’d achieved it.</em></p><p>Or <strong>tried</strong> to, anyway.</p><p>“You were a kid and I asked, too, much of you. Put too much on your shoulders, and I let it <strong>crush</strong> you, and didn’t even see it, till I almost lost you.”</p><p>Dean remains in this state of explicit shock, as he sees Dad crying<em>—actually friggin’ crying!!!!—</em>these real tears, down his cheeks!</p><p>And Dean doesn’t know what to say. He’s never seen, Dad, like this.</p><p>Not, so, sincere—<em>so kind</em>—<em>not since</em> … since before, Mom, died …</p><p>Maybe, not even <em>then …</em></p><p>“Dad … I don’t … I don’t <strong>regret</strong> it. Taking care of you an’ Sammy.”</p><p>And he <strong>doesn’t</strong>. Not in this moment … Not with, Dad, like this …</p><p>So broken-looking. So … So small-looking … like someone feeble—<em>and defeated.</em></p><p>Dean actually starts to feel bad for breaking it off. For stopping, Dad, from seeking him out in bed. For these last three years of keeping, Dad, at bay.</p><p>And it’s sick. And he shouldn’t feel bad for choosing his own sanity over Dad’s needs … but … but, Dean, can’t help it.</p><p>It’s who he’s always been.</p><p>The giver of the family—the one willing to <strong><em>shatter</em></strong> themselves to save everyone else.</p><p>“It wasn’t your job, Dean, and I should have made that clearer to you, then. I should’ve done <strong>better</strong> by you, and I’m sorry, Son.”</p><p>Dean wants to be closer to, Dad, right now. This is the part of, Dad, he’s always tried to seek out. Always. The vulnerable, human side. Not the drunken, world-hating, side he’s always seemed to fish out.</p><p>Extending his hand, Dean, grasps, Dad’s. Taking in the rough texture of Dad’s fingers. Allowing the pad of his thumb to drag across the back—<em>to touch Dad for the first time, freely.</em></p><p>And, Dad, <strong>lets</strong> him.</p><p>“I’m not sorry, Dad. You <em>hear</em> me? I’d do it all, again. I’d be what you <strong>needed</strong> … I’d take care of, <strong>Sammy</strong> …” Dean feels he needs to say all this.</p><p>It’s the way this <em>room</em> feels, right now.</p><p>There’s this tight, inescapable <strong><em>heat</em></strong> in it. This emotion that’s so chaotic and extreme, yet subduing and tantamount to all else.</p><p>
  <em>It’s indescribable.</em>
</p><p>Dad leans down and Dean moves in, eagerly. Forcing a kiss to, Dad’s mouth. Dad was aiming for his forehead and he feels the shockwaves exerting through, Dad’s frame, but Dean feels he needs to take away this pain in the room. Needs to replace it with something, else. Something <em>better.</em></p><p>
  <em>Even if it’s only for a split-second …</em>
</p><p>It’s <strong>Dad</strong> that pulls back. Always, Dad, that’s the <em>first</em> to pull away.</p><p>“I need you to promise me, something, Dean,” Dad says, with this gravely tone.</p><p>Without even needing to think about it, he says, “Anything, Dad,” and means it.</p><p>“You take <strong>care</strong> of, Sammy,” he breathes out.</p><p>“You know I <em>will,</em> Dad,” Dean promises, “Are you okay?” he has to ask—‘cause it’s not like, Dad, to not get upset with him about the stolen kiss … about the hand holding … about his general softness … about <strong><em>all</em></strong> of this …</p><p>“Yeah, I’m <strong>alright</strong>, Dean.”</p><p>“You’re <strong>scaring</strong> me,” he pushes, still not convinced that Dad actually is alright.</p><p>“Don’t be scared, Dean. But there is something else I gotta tell you. ‘Bout, Sammy.”</p><p>Dean looks him in the eye and says, “What about him?”</p><p>When, Dad, leans back in to whisper in Dean’s good ear.</p><p>
  <em>He listens.</em>
</p><p>“You need to <strong>save</strong>, Sammy, Dean. Whatever it takes, nothing else matters, <em>except</em> for that. But if you <strong>can’t</strong> save him, Dean. If you can’t find a way, then you’re gonna have to be the one to put a bullet in him. For your own good, <em>an’ his.”</em></p><p>Chills flood <strong>everywhere</strong>, all at once.</p><p>Dean can’t believe that, Dad, just said <strong><em>that</em></strong> to him.</p><p>The shock on his face—must be pretty damn apparent, ‘cause, Dad, just looks at him with that same tearful expression, and walks right through the door—<em>and never comes back.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxii. cracked jagged rocks undersurface.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>All there is, is cold, numb, <em>despair.</em></p><p>
  <em>It’s brokenness and hollowness.</em>
</p><p>It’s everything there is, now … everything that’s <strong>here</strong>.</p><p>It lives in Dean like a shadowy <strong>kiss</strong>—<em>like a painstaking ache</em>—and like a piece of, Dad, that’ll <strong>never</strong> quite die.</p><p>Dean aches in his <strong>soul</strong>—<em>in his skin</em>—in his … <em>everywhere.</em> He just friggin’ <strong>aches</strong>.</p><p>And this pain never stops. Never lets him <strong>breathe</strong>—never lets him <em>feel</em> without feeling the loss of, Dad, everywhere there’s space.</p><p>Everywhere there’s <strong>anything</strong>, at all.</p><p>And then, then there is this burden, Dad, left him to feel—left him to, stew, in.</p><p><em>‘Save, Sammy … or put a bullet in him …’</em> the options are bleak—the outcomes even bleaker, and Dean doesn’t know how to feel it, without feeling so much weight and burden and just freaking loss mixed therein …</p><p>They <strong>burn</strong> the body … watch in silence as the white sheet burns and Dad’s bones with it. It’s silent and dead as the ashes dust the ground and flames crackle on the <em>midnight</em> wind.</p><p>The drive back to Bobby’s house, after, feels like a punch to the gut—<em>like defeat</em>—and the state of Baby … well … that’s even <strong><em>worse</em></strong> to feel.</p><p>Dean leans on, Sam, to make it up the stairs and into Bobby’s guestroom, where these memories of the last time he stayed here haunt and <strong>betray</strong> him, over and over, again.</p><p>He came to Bobby’s to avoid, Dad. To avoid laying <strong>under</strong>, Dad … and now, Dean, would give his whole heart and soul to be able to have, Dad, back and lay under him.</p><p>It’s not rational or the way he should feel … but Dean is conflicted, right now, ‘cause he saw a side of Dad he’s yearned to see for a long damn time, and … and well … Dean wishes he could’ve had more time with <strong><em>that</em></strong>, Dad.</p><p>With that <strong><em>side</em></strong> of, Dad.</p><p>With, Dad, <em>period.</em></p><p>And the worst part is that he can’t voice any of this to, Sammy, ‘cause he’d never understand.</p><p>Not in a <strong>million</strong> years.</p><p>Dean lays on Bobby’s guest bed, several empty bottles of liquor on the nightstand, with a hollow, blank expression written into his eyes, and it could be minutes <em>… or hours …</em> or days … but, Sammy, comes and joins him at some point, when the alcohol is thick in his blood—<em>and squeezing at his heart.</em></p><p>When the moon is high in the sky, and the birds no longer chirp their songs outside.</p><p>And it’s just <strong>them</strong>, here.</p><p>Sammy is warm body-heat against Dean’s frame. He meshes <strong>perfectly</strong>, primed against him, like a heartbeat—like a perfect puzzle piece.</p><p>And his hands find, Dean’s cheeks. Cupping along his chiseled jawline with this <em>sweeping</em> tenderness.</p><p>“De? Come <em>back</em> to me, De …” Sammy pleads and Dean mentally prepares himself for the impending <em>collision</em> of Sammy’s seeking, <strong>hungry</strong> lips as they find his own.</p><p>And there is just this <strong>burst</strong> of physicality that <em>ignites</em>. Surging inside, Dean, like this fiery blast—and it coils in his stomach and screams throughout his veins, singing and radiating with pleasurable discourse.</p><p>And—Dean just <em>needs …</em></p><p>His hands are grasping for, Sammy. Stripping off layers of clothes. <em>Jacket. Bluish polo shirt. Undershirt. Ripped blue-jeans. Boxers.</em></p><p>Palming <strong><em>his</em></strong> Sammy’s most <strong><em>sensitive</em></strong> bits. Pushing down between, Sammy’s thighs. Tugging, pumping, squeezing, until Sammy is writhing and crying-out for him—for what they <strong><em>both</em></strong> need, tonight.</p><p>
  <em>Companionship. Relief.</em>
</p><p>There’s no friggin’ way he could survive this hell, without, Sammy, this time around. Without the need-filled<em>, responsive,</em> skin of <strong><em>his,</em></strong> ‘<em>not-so-little-anymore,’</em> Sammy-Sam, primed and ready to distract him from this <strong>pain</strong> … from this <em>excruciation</em>.</p><p>Like a <em>touch</em> … like a <strong><em>need</em></strong> … Dean just falters and caves and lets himself split in two, ‘cause there’s no way to work out what he knows in his head—<em>in his heart …</em></p><p>Dad gave up his life so that, <em>Dean,</em> could live.</p><p>He was friggin’ dead—<em>according to Sammy</em>—with a reaper, dead-set on takin’ him, and now he’s been restored.</p><p>Now, he’s fully back with only these small aches and pains in his joints and muscles that’ve always been there. While his more excruciating injuries have faded—<em>almost entirely</em>—down to barely palpable bruises—barely even noteworthy, bruises.</p><p>And Dad’s sacrifice is a debt, Dean, will never be able to repay.</p><p>No matter how much alcohol he consumes, or pills he pops … Dad will still be <strong>gone</strong> and he will still be <em>here …</em> without the Colt, without a <strong>lead</strong> on the Yellow-Eyed thing that is most-likely responsible—<em>without a goddamned thing.</em></p><p>
  <em>Period.</em>
</p><p>Well … except for <strong>Sammy</strong> … somehow, he’s <em>still</em> got, Sammy …</p><p>Dean wars for dominance against Sammy’s lips. Keens and <strong>aches</strong> with the <em>thrill</em> of having Sammy stripping—<em>revealing</em>—his fuck-hungry skin to the air.</p><p>His manhood throbs with a dull-pulse between his thighs and he <strong>knows</strong> he’s not gonna be satisfied with just, <strong><em>once,</em></strong> tonight. He’s gonna need <strong>more</strong>.</p><p>The trill of cheap whiskey in his blood, <em>sings</em> for touch—<em>sings for take</em>—and Dean hears Dad’s voice in his head<em>, ‘yer just like yer, ma,’</em> and he has to blink to force the <strong>memories</strong> back—<em>to prevent their resurfacing and wrecking everything.</em></p><p>Dad <strong>isn’t</strong> gonna touch him, again. And, Dean, has to wrap his head around <em>that …</em> has to remember that, Dad, is <strong>never</strong> gonna talk to him, again.</p><p>Never gonna <em>touch</em> and <strong>kiss</strong> him … never gonna be <em>here,</em> again.</p><p>It’s <strong>hard</strong>. Even though it’s been years since the last time they were intimate … it, now, feels like <strong>yesterday</strong> …</p><p>And, Dad, was <em>right.</em></p><p>Dean <strong>is</strong> like, Mom. He knows it in his marrow—‘cause he’s <em>turned on</em> and damn-near <strong>rabid</strong> with friskiness, ‘cause he’s <strong>drunk</strong>.</p><p>So, drunk …</p><p>Which—<em>as Dad told it</em>—is precisely how Mom would get when she was plied with alcohol.</p><p><em>“Need you, Sammy …”</em> he somehow manages to pant in his little brother’s ear. Drags his nails across Sammy’s back straight up his spine, and receives these heated little whines of need. <em>Of thrill, </em>in response.</p><p>“So, <strong>take</strong> me, De,” Sammy pants.</p><p>Sammy offering himself up like a fresh <strong>cow</strong> to the slaughter, does something to him. Really does a number—<em>and Dean wrestles for control</em>—and wins.</p><p>Sammy is on his back in a <strong>second</strong>—<em>and Dean opens his thighs and pushes home in his brother</em>—pushes and takes until he <strong>blacks out</strong> from the pleasure and the friction of it … He ruts until he’s throbbing in his crotch and his part is red and overstimulated. He loses track of how <strong>much</strong> he cums, but there’s copious amounts in <em>his,</em> Sammy, by the time he finally tugs out. Shaking and trembling.</p><p>Dean doesn’t remember doing it, but he must’ve made the decision to use his <em>hands</em> to pin Sammy’s wrists to this cheap mattress, ‘cause Sammy’s wrists are black and blue, and his hands are still tightly secured around both of them, as his senses slowly ebb back in.</p><p>The give and take, was <strong>tiring</strong> though, and Dean half-rested himself on Sammy’s torso. Meanwhile, <em>(in desperate need of friction with no other way to get it)</em> Sammy, had worked himself against Dean’s abdomen. Splatters of Sammy’s seed coat <strong><em>both</em></strong> their bellies, and Sammy’s pecker is just as red and swollen—<em>and downright overstimulated</em>—as Dean’s is, now.</p><p>They’d been loud and completely outta control, which makes Dean wonder if <strong>Bobby</strong> heard, but he knows the old grump won’t say a word about it. Bobby <em>knows</em> about this wrong connection they’ve got … this twisted <strong>attachment</strong> to one another … and he’d <strong><em>never</em></strong> interrupt them.</p><p>At least … <em>not tonight. </em></p><p>Not after all they’ve gone through, this past <strong>week</strong> …</p><p>Sammy can’t stop these tiny whines, that are coming outta his mouth, in little hitches. And it’s riling him back up to listen to them.</p><p>Through his current, alcohol-numbed state, Dean, wants to make himself <strong>hurt</strong>—wants to make himself <em>feel</em> all of this extensive pain, even more profoundly, ‘cause he knows he <strong>deserves</strong> to.</p><p>So, when he’s tired himself, past the breaking point, he whispers in Sammy’s ear, <em>“It’s been a while since I let you …”</em> he goads, while pumping his closed-fist up and down the length of Sammy’s part.</p><p>“Make me <strong><em>feel</em></strong> it, Sammy-Sam … I wanna <strong>feel</strong> it …” Sammy’s not as spent as Dean first <em>believes</em> and, this lust in Sammy’s brownish-green eyes is palpable.</p><p>Almost, <strong>darkly</strong>, so.</p><p>“You <strong>sure</strong>, De?” Sammy breathes, and he knows it’s Sammy’s way of giving him an out. But he doesn’t <strong>deserve</strong> an out. He deserves to <strong>suffer</strong>—to feel as disgusting as he <strong>is</strong>, right now.</p><p>And being under <em>his</em> Sammy … feeling a lack of <strong>love</strong> … experiencing a lack of <em>‘feeling human,’ …</em></p><p>Dean <strong>needs</strong> that, right now.</p><p>“Just do it, Sammy,” he demands, “And don’t go easy—<em>fuck me.</em> Make me your <strong>toy</strong> …”</p><p>Sammy’s eyes widen in berth and Dean sees Sammy’s pupils actually dilate and his prick gives a throb in Dean’s <em>still-stimulating</em> hand.</p><p>“De … I don’t wanna <strong>hurt</strong> you,” Sammy establishes. Reaching up to use his <em>softest</em> touches to graze and soothe, Dean’s <strong>undeserving</strong> skin.</p><p>Dean feels agitation prickle under his skin. Senses his heartbeat rising—<em>skin pumping blood and radiating with nerves</em>—and he knows what he needs to do to <em>force</em> Sammy to hurt him …</p><p>He stops using his sexual charms—<em>his persuasion</em>—on Sammy a long time, ago. But, here and now, Dean, reaches out with his appealing charms. Pushes steamy kisses to Sammy’s neckline and overrides Sammy’s will, by breaking his resolve.</p><p>Same as he’s done with, Dad, a hundred times, before.</p><p>Dean uses his curse—<em>his sickness</em>—to get Sammy to act out his darkest whims—those creeping impulses he <strong>knows</strong> Sammy has. Dean saw them that night, Sammy, hurt him back at Stanford.</p><p>Sammy’s capable of it—<em>Dean knows that he is.</em></p><p>“Make me <strong><em>feel</em></strong> it, Sammy. Make me <strong>ache</strong> with it …” he commands, and feels Sammy’s will break—<em>snap</em>—like a lightbulb hitting the pavement. And Sammy is turning them over. Shoving, Dean, down into the wrecked-up bedsheets, shoving open Dean’s thighs and ramming <strong><em>home</em></strong> in him.</p><p>And it’s <em>excruciating.</em></p><p>Dean <strong>definitely</strong> feels it.</p><p>There’s no prep—<em>no spit</em>—just leftover cum coating Sammy’s smaller length. So, when he shoves in—<em>it stings</em>—and Dean cries. It reminds him of Dad—<em>just like he wants it to.</em></p><p>Sammy loses control and ruts like the devil <strong><em>himself</em></strong> has possessed him.</p><p>And Dean cries, squeaks, and <strong>strains</strong> to hold in his tears. To muffle his cries as his body is wrecked—<em>and ruined</em>—and <strong>punished</strong>. Just like it <em>deserves</em> to be.</p><p>And Sammy has this dark expression in his eyes, while he does it. It’s like, Sammy, is there but <strong>not</strong> in control—<em>not able to help what he needs</em>—<em>what he takes</em>—and Dean has to fist these bedsheets. Bite his tongue to keep from screaming out this pain—<em>this agony</em>—and there’s so <strong>much</strong> pain in his heart as he thinks about what, Dad, used to <em>say</em> to him.</p><p>
  <em>About twisting-up, Sammy.</em>
</p><p>Dad was <strong>right</strong>.</p><p>Dean’s a stain on Sammy’s existence—<em>Dean shattered Sammy’s innocence</em>—and now he’s gone and done it, again.</p><p>Gone and gnarled-up, Sammy’s will, by <strong>weaponizing</strong> his own.</p><p>Dean wants the bruises Sammy’s leaving on his upper-thighs. Wants the tell-tale <strong>marks</strong> on his arms, waist, stomach, everywhere … needs the bruises Sammy’s <em>sucking</em> into his neck, with these punishing sucks and nips at his skin.</p><p>And most of all, Dean, just wants to <strong>feel</strong> what he knows he deserves, for being the reason, Dad, <em>isn’t</em> here, anymore.</p><p>Sammy keeps up his brutalization, until the energy is gone from his body. Until he can’t physically rut, anymore—and he’s spent and tired. Physically <em>drained.</em></p><p>That’s when it finally ends.</p><p>Sammy’s crying into Dean’s neck, when he realizes what he’s done—<em>how much he’s hurt, Dean.</em></p><p>And Dean must’ve blacked out for a bit … must’ve checked-out for a small window <em>(psychologically)</em> and drifted back in. ‘Cause he doesn’t <strong>remember</strong>, Sammy, pulling out. Doesn’t remember, Sammy, laying down <em>next</em> to him …</p><p>And there’s all this <strong>shame</strong>, written in Sammy’s eyes. This horror at what he’s done—<em>at how he’s behaved …</em></p><p>Dean hates that Sammy feels bad—wishes Sammy would get that this is what, <strong><em>he</em></strong> needs. He wants to be broken—wants to be as disgustingly used outside as he feels, inside.</p><p>There’s no logic—<em>no sense that he can explain to Sammy. </em></p><p>Dean just holds him while he cries.</p><p>
  <em>Sensitive, beautiful, Sammy-Sam.</em>
</p><p>He never should’ve <strong>made</strong> Sammy do this …</p><p>Make Sammy make him <em>bleed</em> and <strong><em>suffer </em></strong><em>…</em></p><p>But he blames it on the <strong>drinking</strong>, on the <em>pill-popping</em>—on this grief that’s all-too <strong>raw</strong> inside of him.</p><p>And he knows this sorta thing, has <em>gotta</em> stop.</p><p>This sorta <em>need and take</em> between them. It’s disgusting and Dad wouldn’t <strong>want</strong> it for them.</p><p>Yet, Dean, doesn’t know how to <em>say</em> all of this to, Sammy, again. He knows that he wouldn’t <strong>accept</strong> it. Not in a million years.</p><p>They’re all each other has, now. And that hits, Dean. Right now. <em>Full-force.</em></p><p>This is it.</p><p>This is what’s left of their broken, pitted, family.</p><p>Just, the <strong><em>two</em></strong> of them.</p><p>Against this whole damned, <strong>doomed</strong>, friggin’ planet.</p><p>And, he just can’t … he can’t <em>tell</em> Sammy that they can’t be <strong>sharing</strong> a bed, again. Dean realizes, he’s never gonna be able to say that.</p><p>Not now … and if ever … then, not for a very <strong>long</strong> damn time.</p><p>They’re gonna be stuck like this—<em>he’s gonna be stuck like this.</em></p><p><strong>Needing</strong> Sammy … and being Sammy’s <em>strength</em> …</p><p>So, Dean, lays here and soothes, Sammy—lets him <strong>cry</strong> and cling, until his bruised skin <em>seethes</em> from it. But Dean just keeps holding him.</p><p>“I <strong>hurt</strong> you, De …” Sammy sniffles, clearly trying to come to terms with this.</p><p>Dean smooths a hand through Sammy’s overgrown head of hair. “’M fine,” he whispers, “I <em>deserve</em> to be hurt. <strong>Needed</strong> to be, Sammy-Sam …”</p><p>Sammy stares up at him with this round-eyed expression and shakes his head.</p><p>“That … it wasn’t <strong>right</strong>, De … I shouldn’t have …” Sammy shakes his head and turns his eyes away.</p><p>Dean ignores his broken body’s protests, and sits up on this creaky mattress.</p><p>“I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it, Sammy. Just lay back down an’ we can forget ‘bout, <strong>everything</strong>.”</p><p>Sammy shoots him this stubborn-ass look and turns away.</p><p>Dean’s stomach sinks and pits.</p><p>“<strong>Fine</strong>. If you don’t wanna stay, then <em>go,”</em> Dean breathes. “But we’re all each other has, now, Sammy-Sam. If you’re really gonna leave … then <em>don’t</em> crawl in my bed, anymore.”</p><p>That stops Sammy in his tracks. Feet on the floor, back still facing toward, Dean—<em>Sammy is stock still</em>—and Dean figures he must be mulling it over.</p><p>Debating the consequences of staying <em>versus</em> going.</p><p>Sammy turns and glances back at him—and Dean feels his heart constrict with emotion.</p><p>“You’d <strong>really</strong> turn me away?” Sammy’s voice holds this disbelief that sears at his heart.</p><p>“<strong>Yeah</strong>. I would,” he answers. Trying to sound tougher than he feels.</p><p>Sammy hesitates, then, after a moment, lays back down.</p><p>And they don’t talk. They just lay here in the silence and <strong>mourn</strong> what they’ve lost.</p><p>Dean plies Sammy with whiskey until he’s <strong>drunk</strong> and dozy—less remorseful and sullen—<em>and they kiss for a while.</em> Push hands across skin and <strong>bask</strong> in each other’s presence. In this togetherness, again.</p><p>Eventually, they succumb to <strong>sleep</strong>.</p><p>And it’s in a tangle of limbs and parts that Dean wakes up to the following morning. And like always, <em>(after a night of shameful rut with Sammy)</em> he experiences this overbearing self-disgust, especially this time—‘cause of what he <strong>drove</strong> Sammy to do.</p><p>And he picks himself up—<em>and carries on</em>—leaving Sammy to wake up, alone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Sam can still feel this strange, indecipherable urge that overtook him, <em>days after.</em></p><p>Dean occupies himself with fixing up the Impala out in Bobby’s junkyard. Tinkering under that hood, day in and out. Putting all his spare energy into making <em>‘Baby,’</em> run again, but something in Sam is still unsettled, about what transpired.</p><p>He’s never experienced such a physical state of disarray, before, then. When, Dean, told him to <strong><em>take</em></strong> and make him <em>‘feel,’</em> it … it was like, Sam, couldn’t <strong>prevent</strong> himself from doing just that.</p><p>Like … like Dean’s <em>will</em> was being imposed on him—<em>full throttle.</em></p><p>It’s unnerving to think that Dean is capable of persuading him to physically <strong>inflict</strong> pain—but, he’s been irreparably attracted to his big brother for as long as he can remember, so, he figures, <strong>anything</strong> is possible.</p><p>Sam is also trying to come to terms with the loss of, Dad.</p><p>Part of him has wanted to off, Dad, since Dean told him about the countless times, he raped him over the years. While another part, still views the man as his strict<em>, drill-sergeant,</em> of a father-figure.</p><p>Dean has been his frontrunning caretaker, but, Dad … Dad is still, <em>Dad.</em></p><p>Even after all the shit he’s done, Sammy, still misses the bastard—<em>and that is frustrating to him.</em></p><p>Especially, because, Dad, was the one thing keeping Dean sane, while he was off at Stanford.</p><p>Now, Sam, has no clue what would happen if he were to head back to Stanford and leave Dean in his wake.</p><p>It’s difficult to think about. Difficult even to work out in his head. Especially, considering the fact that, Dean, has been downright <strong>stoic</strong> since they lost, Dad.</p><p>There’s this <em>darkness</em> in, Dean. Sorta like this demon that’s been wreaking all kinds of havoc.</p><p>Dad sacrificed himself for, Dean, and there’s no getting around that. Because, Dean, was on his deathbed. Sam had known it. Standing in that hospital in, Missouri, glancing down at, Dean, with that breathing tube down his throat, while he <strong>flatlined</strong> again, <em>and again …</em></p><p>Sam had said his goodbye’s. Whispered for Dean to <strong>fight</strong>—<em>to come back to him</em>—but known in his heart, that Dean <strong>wouldn’t</strong> be.</p><p>Then, he’d <strong>woke</strong> up.</p><p>Like some sorta <strong>miracle</strong>, then Dad had dropped dead.</p><p>So, yeah, Sam, knows that Dad gave his life so that Dean could <strong>live</strong>, and it’s that one <em>selfless</em> act … that <strong>single-most</strong> redeeming thing, that keeps Sam from truly being able to <em>hate</em> the man, anymore …</p><p>Dad, gave him <strong>back</strong>, Dean—and that’s something, he’ll <strong>never</strong> forget, nor a debt he’ll <strong>ever</strong> be able to repay …</p><p>Even if this version of Dean is broken—<em>shattered</em>—hopelessly aimless, he’s still Dean. Still, Sam’s big brother.</p><p>And that’s <strong>something</strong>.</p><p>Still, after last night, Sam, has tried to work out what to do about, Dean. About this intense suffering, Dean, is going through—<em>more like putting himself through</em>—while internalizing Dad’s death.</p><p>There were so many bruises <em>(on top of the practically healed ones from the car accident) </em>scattered across Dean’s skin, that were made by <strong><em>him</em></strong> during their romp. Sam knows, because he peeked in on Dean in the shower, the next morning, after waking up on his own.</p><p>He’s also noticed the way, Dean, hides food even more profusely, now. He found the empty metal tins from several pies, <strong>stashed</strong> underneath the guest bed, this morning.</p><p>And that’s not even the most <em>troubling</em> thing to, Sam.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>The most troubling, is that they’re back to Dean not wanting to take off his clothes, when they succumb to their <strong>pleasures</strong> at night. Dean pushes his hands away and tells him to leave his shirt be. Dean will only open his jeans and <strong>take</strong>, until he’s spent.</p><p>Sam is the only one between them, that’s naked, while it <strong>happens</strong>.</p><p>Needless to say, Dean, is not taking Dad’s death well … and if this is how he’s coping, well, it’s not really <em>‘coping’ </em>at all.</p><p>Bobby has been rather mum about the whole subject. Whenever, Sam, brings it up, Bobby, just says, <em>‘Yer brother’ll come around. He’s a big boy, Sam,’</em> and though Bobby says it with sheltered eyes, he seems to genuinely <strong>believe</strong> it, just the same.</p><p>Sam knows something is up with Bobby and Dean, because apparently, they didn’t speak for <strong>three</strong> years, which makes little-to-no sense to, Sam.</p><p>Why wouldn’t they have been speaking?</p><p>Sam called Bobby a couple times from Stanford, but Bobby never mentioned that Dean wasn’t doing the same.</p><p>This whole situation is abnormal as a whole and rather <em>awkward</em> for, Sam.</p><p>He doesn’t like all these lies and omissions. They make him <strong>nervous</strong>.</p><p>Why is everyone <strong>pretending</strong>?</p><p>“I’m worried about him, Bobby. He won’t talk to me, he’s hiding food, and all he does is fix that <em>damn</em> car.” Sam is trying for the hundredth time to voice his concern to, Bobby, because he just tried to talk to Dean and got a dismissive shrug—<em>again.</em></p><p>Bobby grunts, running a cloth across one of his guns. He’s been cleaning his collection of guns for the last thirty minutes or so, and Sam decided that <em>now</em> is as good a time as any to try and get something useful outta the man.</p><p>Without, Dad, Bobby, is the closest thing, <strong>either</strong> of them has to a father.</p><p>“He’ll come around when he’s ready,” Bobby says, “You can’t rush him, Sam.”</p><p>Sam huffs in frustration and slams his hands down on Bobby’s desk, staring him down.</p><p>“That’s not <strong>good enough</strong>, Bobby! I’ve been giving him time, alright?! He’s <em>not</em> coming around!” he snaps, though he isn’t really angry at, Bobby, the man’s nonchalance about all this is really grating on him.</p><p>Bobby clicks his revolver back into place and plops it down on his desk, with a sigh.</p><p>“You know, Dean, better than just about anyone. You know he ain’t gonna listen to reason, ‘til he’s good an’ ready to. He just lost, John, little over a week ago, so, why don’t you cut him some <em>slack</em>, alright? Fussin’ over ‘im is gonna have the <strong>opposite</strong> effect of what ya want.”</p><p>Sam knows that <em>some</em> of what Bobby is saying makes sense, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it—<strong><em>hell</em></strong>—Sam <strong><em>doesn’t</em></strong> like it.</p><p>“<em>I </em>lost, Dad, too! You don’t see <strong>me</strong>, shutting down and turning shit off!” Sam rants.</p><p>Another sigh.</p><p>“Things were different for, Dean, where John is concerned, an’ I think we <em>both</em> can agree on that, can’t we?” Bobby gets this look in his eye all the sudden, that has Sam’s blood run cold, and he’s suddenly <strong>nervous</strong>, because … Bobby doesn’t know the <em>half</em> of it. He can’t <strong>possibly</strong> … can he?</p><p>“I dunno what you mean by that, Bobby,” Sam retorts. Folding his arms, and rising back up to full-height. No longer bending over the desk.</p><p>Bobby rubs his temple, roughly, and sighs, again.</p><p>“Look, Sam, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush with you here, okay?” Bobby insists, after a couple seconds of them both eying each other.</p><p>“I dunno what <em>that</em> means, either,” Sam continues to play coy. He knows that Dean would <strong>kill</strong> him if he found out that he’d said too much in front of Bobby.</p><p>Slipping up is <em>not</em> an option, right now.</p><p>“Alright, Boy, how’s about I make it <strong>real</strong>, clear?” Bobby asks in annoyance. “I know the <em>real</em> reason behind why you up and scampered off to Stanford, an’ it wasn’t just to learn ‘bout the law.”</p><p>Sam’s gut clenches and he swallows around a lump.</p><p>Certain things are starting to fit into place, now, and Sam doesn’t know <em>what</em> to say.</p><p>“How much do you know?” Sam finally relents.</p><p>“Enough to know that, John, deserved the <strong><em>dangerous</em></strong> end of one of my shotguns,” he relays with this disgusted tone.</p><p>Sam gently lowers himself into one of the nearby chairs, as he ponders how Bobby found out.</p><p>“And about … about, Dean and I …?” he finds himself asking. More out of curiosity than anything.</p><p>Bobby looks uncomfortable, but nods his head.</p><p>“I know he thinks he <em>corrupted</em> you. An’ I also know that you’re just a <strong>little</strong>, too, attached for your own <strong>good</strong> to that boy.”</p><p>Sam closes his hands over his kneecaps and squeezes for good measure, trying not to think about who <em>actually</em> corrupted <strong><em>who</em></strong> in this scenario. There’s been too much wrongness to really tell, anymore. And honestly … who could keep <strong>score</strong>?</p><p>“How long have you known?” Sam looks up, trying not to show all this guilt in his eyes, but also knows he’s failing in that regard.</p><p>“I got eyes, Sam, and unfortunately, I’ve also got <strong>ears</strong>. And extremely thin walls,” Sam blushes, and knows now that Bobby <strong>definitely</strong> heard … whatever the <em>hell</em> that was the first night … along with everything they’ve done since.</p><p>“So … <strong>not</strong> very long then?” he asks, somewhat hopefully.</p><p>“Dean told me. A little over three years ago, now. Just after he <em>… well … you <strong>know</strong> …”</em> Bobby gestures to his wrists and Sam feels his stomach twist.</p><p>Dean actually <strong><em>told</em></strong> him?</p><p>That’s shocking to Sam. He never would’ve expected Dean to have told Bobby a <strong>damn</strong> thing. Especially, about something like <em>their</em> relationship and <strong>Dad’s.</strong></p><p>“If you know, everything. Then you know, why, I’m concerned.”</p><p>“Things are just tough on him, right now, Sam,” Bobby reiterates.</p><p>“This is <strong>deeper</strong> than that, Bobby, okay? He … He made me …” Sam bunches up his fists and closes his eyes.</p><p>When he reopens them, Bobby, is staring at him with this bewildered expression.</p><p>“Made you <strong>what</strong>, Boy?” Bobby presses.</p><p>Sam clenches his jaw.</p><p>“He made me, <em>hurt</em> him,” Sam says. “When we … I mean …” Sam doesn’t know how to talk about this with, Bobby. It’s difficult to even admit to <em>himself</em>.</p><p>He still can’t figure out, exactly, <strong>what</strong> Dean did, or how. It was like … this part of Dean <strong>pushed</strong> into Sam and made his need so <strong>bad</strong>—<em>so complete</em>—that he couldn’t fight <strong>past</strong> it. He couldn’t do anything to <em>stop</em> the need … the <strong><em>urge</em></strong> to rut … to <em>maim</em> … to freaking <em>hurt …</em></p><p>And when it was all over, <strong>well</strong> … Sam still feels <em>awful</em> about it.</p><p>“Hurt him, <strong>how</strong>, exactly?”</p><p>Sam breathes through his rising anxiety.</p><p>“Like … hurt him like, <strong>Dad</strong>, used to. I couldn’t … It’s like he <strong><em>made</em></strong> me do it, Bobby. He <strong>wanted</strong> me to … and he <em>made</em> me …”</p><p>Bobby gets this look and it’s like something clicks into place and he understands. His face hardens and he works his jaw muscle, but doesn’t <em>say</em> anything.</p><p>“He’s always had this … this <em>way</em> about him, Bobby. It’s difficult to describe,” Sam tries to explain.</p><p>“He told me ‘bout it,” Bobby finally admits.</p><p>“He did?” Sam doesn’t know what to think about that.</p><p>“He was spoutin’ a lot of nonsense, about being able to <em>persuade</em> people to hurt him—<em>or something of the sort</em>—but he ain’t supernatural. He’s <strong>human</strong>, Sam. <em>Just,</em> human. An’ I don’t think he’s some magical siren, or something, neither. I think he’s just naturally <strong>charming</strong>. He’s got a <em>persuasive</em> personality. That’s all,” Bobby defines, “An’ you just gotta be careful, what you let him go an’ talk ya into, Sam.”</p><p>Sam nods, agreeably, feeling immense discomfort in his knotted-up stomach.</p><p>“Yeah. I guess so.” He pauses. “I’ve been trying to bring him <strong>back</strong>, Bobby. I just dunno how.”</p><p>“Give him time. That’s all you <em>can</em> do, Sam. He’s gotta learn to cope with being <strong>without</strong>, John. I tried to keep him here with me, after that whole breakdown … but he still went back to your old man, despite <em>everything.”</em></p><p>Sammy gives Bobby a quizzical stare.</p><p>“You <strong>did</strong>?” He can’t wrap his head around Bobby actually doing something like that.</p><p>“I <strong>did</strong>. But, John, had his hooks in him <em>deep.</em> An’ there was no separatin’ the pair of them for <strong>long</strong>.”</p><p>Sam has always <em>known</em> that deep down. That’s why he’s so concerned about this newfound, destructive behavior.</p><p>“Yeah. You’re right about that,” Sam mutters.</p><p>Bobby sighs. “Look, Sam. Let him keep this up for another week. An’ if nothing improves, then we’ll do something. <em>Deal?”</em></p><p>Sam hates the idea, but he can’t see any other option, here. So, the way he sees it, he’s got no other choice but to agree. Because the last thing he wants is to make Dean feel cornered or trapped … He knows what happens whenever, Dean, feels outta control.</p><p>So, this is truly the best option.</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>Bobby gives a satisfied nod, and Sam rises to his feet, still trying to wrap his head around everything that Bobby’s told him.</p><p>Just as he reaches the doorway, Bobby, calls out to him.</p><p>“Do your best to keep him grounded, Sam, alright?” he asks, and Sam turns back to look at him, “You’re the only one that can, ‘cause, when it comes to you, Dean, would do anything for ya. And if you really want him to listen, you’re the only one that’s gonna break on through those tough-ass walls he’s buildin’ round himself, in the end. You hear me?”</p><p>Deep down, Sam, has always know that, too.</p><p>He nods. “I hear ya, Bobby,” he cements.</p><p>Bobby nods, again, and says, “Alright. Well, go on. I’m sure you got something better to do than bother me.”</p><p>Sam chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, alright, Bobby. Sure.”</p><p>Sam heads out of the house, back towards, Dean, to try, again.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>xxxxx</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>Time passes with this strange fluidity, that seems to lack in all things palpable.</p><p>Dean, slaves away on, <em>‘Baby,’</em> for weeks. Listens to, Sam, constantly <strong>yammer</strong> on about his not grieving properly and Dad not being here … and on and on the cycle went, until, Dean, was ready to start throwing punches.</p><p>Sam came up with this idea to follow a phone number off Dad’s phone, to a place called <em>‘The Roadhouse,’ </em>where a woman Dad knew, named Ellen and her daughter, Jo, reside.</p><p>Dean was grateful to have something else to focus on<em> (even if it was just for a little while)</em> that didn’t require, Sam, looking at him with this sorry-ass look on his face.</p><p>Dad gave his life for, Dean. Sam doesn’t have to carry that burden around on his back the way, he does.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to come to terms with what’s gone on and how narrowly close he’s come to losing his life.</p><p>Needless to say, he’s not felt like himself.</p><p>No matter how many pills he pops, or whiskey he drains, he still feels off-kilter and unlike himself.</p><p>
  <em>Hell.</em>
</p><p>When he first laid eyes on, Jo, he thought about hitting on her, like every other hot chick he comes across … but he just <strong>couldn’t</strong> do it.</p><p>Not with, Sammy, shooting him these <em>‘kicked-puppy-dog,’</em> eyes, and pouting over the bar, like some sorta scorned chick or something … though, it did run a little deeper than that.</p><p>The best he can figure, he just couldn’t perk up his mojo enough to actually follow through.</p><p>Part of him wanted to be normal and feel the inside of a tight cunt … but another side viewed, Jo, as this almost kid-sister-like figure and it felt <em>off … </em>wrong in ways that made him unable to go there. ‘Cause of how he’s already ruined one innocent … <em>Sammy.</em></p><p>There was this little voice in the back of his mind that screamed about how his touch is tainted—<em>corrupting</em>—and he backed off.</p><p>Maybe it was, Dad’s residual voice, or possibly his own <strong>conscience</strong>, but … for the moment, Dean, has only been able to share a bed with Sammy. To touch, kiss, fuck, and rile-up, his little brother …</p><p>Then, there was, Ash.</p><p>Finding a genius from MIT in the sticks, that was willing to help locate the Yellow-Eyed Bastard that got, Dad? That was like winning the lottery.</p><p>Though, despite having a little bit of hope about locating that <em>‘Yellow-Eyed Bastard,’</em> and getting to kill a friggin’ parent-munching clown in the same week, Dean, still has this pit in his stomach, ‘cause of Dad.</p><p>And just a couple hours ago, Sammy, actually admitted to him that he doesn’t know if he’s gonna head back to Stanford—‘cause it’s not what Dad would’ve wanted him to do—and that hit him in a fucked-up way, if he’s being honest.</p><p>Then, he told him about all this shit he has to make-up for with, Dad, and how that’s affected him—and something in, Dean, just snapped.</p><p>It wasn’t logical—wasn’t even something he could describe—but he just friggin’ lost control. It was a little about Dad—and a lot about, Sammy.</p><p>Maybe it was about how Dad couldn’t love him … couldn’t love, Dean, like he loved, Sammy. Maybe it was ‘cause, Dad, traded his life for Dean’s which has forever left him with this unpayable life debt … Or, maybe, he lost his friggin’ mind, ‘cause Sammy has no idea what it actually feels like to have a parent that saw his every touch, every move, every tiny-little action—as poison.</p><p>That viewed him as this untouchable, broken thing that was just … just <strong>born</strong> wrong and twisted.</p><p>
  <em>Either way. </em>
</p><p>Dean broke with reality—<em>had a lapse</em>—and when he came back outta this rage-filled explosion, he was shaking in the dirt of Bobby’s junkyard, and <em>Baby</em> was missing a window … and dented on her hood, this incriminating tire iron resting inches away in the dirt.</p><p>It’s been hours since his outburst <em>(and Sammy thankfully didn’t see) </em>and he’s since fixed up Baby as best he could, apologized to her, and showered.</p><p>Sammy ordered pizza about an hour ago, and Dean had a few slices, but now he’s just feeling weighted down with exhaustion.</p><p>So much exhaustion …</p><p>He’s worn himself to the bone—and whenever he gets some shut-eye, all he sees is, Dad in the fiery pits of hell, forever tortured by that Yellow-Eyed Bastard.</p><p>His days are tortuous and so are his nights—and there’s no escape.</p><p>
  <em>Ever.</em>
</p><p><em>“De?”</em> Sammy is standing in Bobby’s guestroom doorway, with a solemn expression on his face.</p><p>He’s been sitting here, sipping cheap whiskey, wearing Dad’s leather jacket, and thinking about Dad. He also took an Oxy little over a half-hour ago, too. He’s been having a flare-up of joint and muscle pain, ‘cause of all his time spent fixing up, Baby.</p><p>“Come to tell me again, ‘bout how I’m not dealin’ with, Dad’s death? ‘Cause if you are, you can waltz right back out that, friggin’ door, Sammy. I’m serious,” he snaps.</p><p>Sammy noticably swallows and shakes his head.</p><p>“No. I just came to keep you company … Figured you might need me.”</p><p>Dean furrows his brow and works his jaw, while mulling over what Sammy just hinted at.</p><p>“You wanna <strong>fuck</strong>, you mean,” Dean mutters. Rubbing at the side of his face, trying to ignore the stir in his crotch, from the mention of it.</p><p>It feels like all he does is fuck and twist-up Sammy, fix-up Baby, and repeat.</p><p>It was a nice change to have gone out and pursued a case, for a couple days.</p><p>Sammy is flushed in the cheeks. “I mean … we don’t <strong>gotta</strong>, if you don’t want to …”</p><p>Dean scoffs through a laugh and shakes his head. “Get <em>over</em> here, Sammy, an’ close the damn door.”</p><p>Sammy complies—and Dean spends the next three hours, having Sammy <em>six-ways-to-Sunday</em>, without stopping for anything.</p><p>It inflicts pleasure and pain on him for a bit.</p><p>And that’s <strong><em>all</em></strong> that matters—<em>that he gets his daily fill of both those things.</em></p><p>And he knows tomorrow<em>—it’s all gonna <strong>just</strong> repeat, in this endless cycle, like water ever-running through a goddamned stream, until something severs the flow.</em></p><p>Though he knows in his heart that Dad’s death already did that, so there’s <strong><em>nothing</em></strong> to stop this godforsaken cycle.</p><p>
  <em>Nothing in the least.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i><br/>    <b>Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</b><br/>  </i>
</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i> Don't forget to comment and/or leave Kudos! I love to hear from you, Lovelies! You always provide me with the most epic conversations! xxxx</i>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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